Rising
by Bluesunkatsuri
Summary: Ireland, 1914. Still struggling to get Home Rule, Ireland discovers secrets his people are keeping even from him. And as Europe plunges into chaos and war, he finds that to gain his independence, he is indeed left with no choice. The only way he'll ever be free... is through a Rising. *Part 1 of my Historical Hetalia series. Rated T for language and violence later on in the story*
1. Chapter 1

**I've been reading about the Irish Rising of 1916 lately, and thought it was time there were more fics about it on here. So, here it is! I'll try my best to be as historically accurate as I can, but just know that I've never learned about it in school or anywhere. All I know, I got from Peter de Rosa's book, _Rebels: The Irish Rising of 1916_ (great book, by the way, you should read it if you're interested) and my mother, who grew up in Ireland and did learn Irish history. Though, with her forgetfulness, I doubt she's a reliable source...**

**Now, I'll just state the human names for the other members of the United Kingdom here already: Allistair=Scotland, Dylan=Wales, Cearul=Ireland (he was part of the UK at the time) and (though he doesn't appear until the end of this story) Coineach= Northern Ireland**

***I do not own Hetalia or any of the characters mentioned, except my OCs for the United Kingdom***

**And now, without further ado, here is my latest story:**

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"Home Rule," he said as he tapped his crossed arms with his fingers almost nervously, looking his brother deep in the eyes. His words had come after a long and rather uncomfortable silence between him and his three brothers, and his voice sounded almost alien to himself. It was like listening to someone through a telephone, or perhaps when only half awake, with your mind still dazed and foggy from sleep. Whatever it was, his voice had sounded off, far away and vague. He swallowed the lump in his throat that threatened to choke him and forced his heart to beat normally again as he opened his mouth to speak once again. "That is all I ask of you, Arthur: Home Rule. All I have ever asked of you." His younger brother sighed in exasperation and closed his eyes. "And if I give it to you," he asked, "what will you do then?" The personification of Ireland opened his mouth again, but he hesitated and no sound came over his lips. After about a minute, he shook his head, answering, "I'd rule myself, yet remain part of the Empire: that is the deal, is it not?" God, how he loathed these formal conversations. He masked as much of his accent as he possibly could, seeing as the Irish accent to those stick-up-the-arse Brits sounded 'too informal' and 'was too hard to follow' for use in negotiations such as these. It was rather difficult, not to mention that it felt like he lost yet another piece of himself every time he did it. He most definitely had to refrain from speaking Gaelic, for that was not tolerated either. No, he was speaking to England, so English it was.

The younger nation shook his head. "We both know very well that is not true, Cearul," England responded, shaking his head slowly. "Once you rule yourself, what then? Independence? I have seen it happen before, and I am not about to see it happen once again." Ireland clenched his jaws together and tried his very best not to glare now. So he was still bitter over the loss of America? Ofcourse he was. England was not a very emotionally-controlled person, and bearing grudges was simply part of his nature it seemed. That's the very reason he now ruled his brothers (and a large part of the rest of the world along with them) with an iron fist. Ireland almost scoffed and internally said, _Well, if it makes you feel any better, lad, I'm sorry for abandoning you when you were only just a baby. I did not foresee the Romans, the French and the Vikings. But then again, you pulled through well enough on your own, did you not? You don't even need us! _And, with a grin, he would add: _So how about that independence we discussed, yeah? About bloody time we got it, if you ask me._ But ofcourse he'd never said those words aloud. Doing so would be like writing his own death sentence. Who knew his baby brother, the one that used to be so very cute in his primitive clothing with his tiny bow and the crooked arrows he made from twigs and pebbles, would grow to be such a tyrant? Nervously, Ireland averted his gaze and looked at his other brothers, Wales and Scotland, instead. They looked so very confident sitting there beside England. The United fucking Kingdom of Great Britain. And Ireland, thoug he was not good enough to be part of their 'Great Britain'. No, he just got the addition 'and Ireland' in the mighty Empire's name, and contented himself with just that. When the day came he regained his independence after seven bloody centuries of British domination, at least he wouldn't make renaming the Empire too hard for his _dearest_ brothers. Scotland was the best of the three, a decent young man with whom Ireland could actually have good conversations when he was not patrolling Irish ground like he owned it (in name of the English, ofcourse). Wales was called Bhreatain Bheag, which translated to 'little Britain', for a damn good reason. While he was also not too keen on the British rule, he also never lifted so much as a finger against it. Threats, harsh words at most, but never a true rebellion.

Ireland then looked back at England who stared at him with emerald-green eyes, waiting patiently for his older brother's reaction. Knowing by now that his attempts were hopeless, Ireland gave one final effort to convince the younger nation that he would not betray the Empire. "I will stay loyal to you and to Great Britain, Arthur," he promised, almost pleading. Judging from the way England's gaze remained cold as ever at hearing these words, Ireland knew there was really no chance of his request being accepted and the Bill being passed. "Just give me Home Rule: let me rule my own land and my own people while I remain at your side as a loyal part of the Empire. But let my people be free." England rose to his feet and shook his head. "Absolutely not. Cearul, we have been discussing this since 1886," _1870, _Ireland corrected him in silence. _My first request came in 1870. _"My answer was no seven years ago, and as is it now. The Bill may have passed the House of Commons, the House of Lords defeated it, and that's it. Don't come crawling to _me_ for mercy and compassion now, because you will not get it from me anymore than from my government." Ireland allowed himself to gape at him in astonishment for once, and he choked out, "So I'm not even worth showing compassion to anymore now?" England, who had already turned around to leave, looked at him over his shoulder with an icy gaze. "And here I thought we were brothers, Arthur." The younger nation narrowed his eyes for a moment at his brother's words, and replied with a cold voice, "We are, but that does not mean you should receive privileges other colonies do not have." Some hint of amusement now shone in his irises, and his lips twisted into a small grin as he added: "That's what being a nation is like. Funny, that I have to teach my older brother these rules instead of the other way around." He then turned around and left, Scotland and Wales in tow. Before he closed the door behind him, he muttered, "Ofcourse, back when you _should _have taught me, _you weren't there_." And then he was gone, leaving Ireland to stare after him in defeat. Why was it, that he was the oldest of the brothers, yet felt helpless like a weak newborn when speaking to the youngest of them like this?

"Second Home Rule Bill," he muttered to himself, sighing and letting his shoulders hang. "Defeated."

That was in September 1893.

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**Before you start flaming me about how incredibly cruel I portray England, remember, at this time in history, he _was_. Ever heard of Black '47? The Irish potato crops were all rotten, so they had nothing to eat there. Yet, the English had the guts to import Irish beef for the Brits to eat... they let the Irish starve.**

**Also, I find the relationship between England and his brothers is portrayed wrong in most fanfics. It was England who opressed Ireland, and if I'm not mistaken, Scotland and Wales as well. Not the other way around. But his reasons for hating his brothers, and especially Ireland, so much will be explained.**

**Now don't get me wrong. I love England, nation _and_ character, but I can't deny facts. They're as decent as any other European people these days, but the English history is a dark one. (I'm not saying my own -the Dutch- isn't. Gods, we were monsters and had the frickin' guts to call it our Golden Age...)**

**Anyway, tell me what you think, but leave the flaming out please!**


	2. Chapter 2

**New chapter in one day, I know... I've written up to chapter 4 already.**

**Thank you for the follow, Shadow fairy princess! A follow within 3 hours after posting... that must be a record for me!**

**I hope you'll enjoy chapter 2~**

**I do not own Hetalia**

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It was July 26, 1914. The morning had been rather peaceful, though Ireland, being a nation, had sensed very well that something was off. He couldn't quite put a finger on it, nor remember hearing any rumors of... anything really. But he knew, deep inside, that something was wrong and he had to be alert all day. Quick as he could, he got out of bed, dressed, skipped breakfast in his hurry and left his home, which was located just outside of Dublin. Nations always had their homes in their capitals, perhaps a cottage or two in other regions as well if such a thing was required because of size of landmass, for example (he could easily imagine Russia owning at least ten or more houses, being the largest nation on Earth) but Ireland enjoyed peace and quiet, at least in the early morning. And that was something he'd never get in the middle of a large city such as Dublin. But now he almost raced to the city, knowing it was the best place to gather information, and also where he would find his brother Scotland, who was currently staying with some of his soldiers that patrolled the Irish roads under command of the English. It infuriated Ireland to no end, but he kept his cool in front of his younger brother, who had absolutely no say in any of it. He was just doing as he was told.

It was about 10 a.m. when he came storming into the HQ of the Scotish army in Ireland, where he instantly went to the first Scot he saw: a rather short, broad shouldered man with dark hair and a bushy moustache. "I needda speak t'Al," the nation immediately said, almost skidding to a halt in front of the man, who just raised an eyebrow at him questioningly. Ireland sighed. "Allistair," he added to clarify. "Y'know, Alba? Yer country?" The Scotsman crossed his arms and looked up at Ireland, looking him directly in the eye. "And what, do tell," he began, narrowing his eyes. "What kind of business do ye have with our country?" His words sounded forced in such a way, Ireland immediately understood the man couldn't even believe his own words, meaning he must be fairly new in these troops and had only just heard about personifications of nations. So he just shook his head for a moment and answered, "'E's my brother and I need ta speak ta 'im. I'm Ireland." The man's eyes widened and, wordlessly, beckoned Ireland to follow him. The ginger-haired nation shook his head in both amusement and annoyance as he was led to Scotland's office. The younger man, with his fiery red hair and clear blue eyes like Ireland's own, was busy gathering his things and stacking papers. His rifle already hung over his shoulder. Ireland cleared his throat loudly to draw his attention, and the nation looked at him in surprise. "Ah, Cearul. Good murning lad." The Irishman scoffed a little, muttering, "Do not call me a lad, when _yer _the younger brother, _lad_." Scotland laughed as he put the last stack of papers in the drawer of his desk and apologised, "Ofcourse, ofcourse. Sorry then, Old Man." As always, Scotland managed to both annoy Ireland and warm his heart at the same time. While his words had made him want to slap his little brother at the very least, his cheerful laugh and broad smile made him chuckle a bit, smiling himself. "So what cannah do fer ye, Cearul?" Scotland asked, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder and looking him in the eye. "Unless, ofcourse, yer just here on a friendly brother visit. If that's the case, though, can it wait 'til after I'm back?" He looked to his right for a moment, at the clock that was on his wall there. "My patrol is scheduled t'leave in a few minutes, y'see." Ireland took a deep breath in relief and grabbed Scotland by the arms. "Good, tha's perfect," he said, confusing his brother a bit. "Would ye keep an eye out fer me when yer on patrol, lad? Some'ting's not right today..." He looked away for a moment and thought quickly before adding, "And if ye find anyt'ing, could ye report ta me instead o'Sasana?" Scotland flinched slightly at the last part and he looked away with a look of discomfort. "Well, y'see, if I dun'report t'England..." He didn't finish his sentence, but Ireland knew exactly what he meant, and suddenly he felt bad about even asking. "I can, fer this once, report t'you _first_ though. If there really is trouble, I mean." Ireland nodded and let go of him again. "Thank you, brother of mine," he said with a smile, which Scotland returned. "Anytime, Old Man," he answered with a playful wink and a smirk. "But I really have ta go now. But hey, wanna go to a pub t'night, grab some whiskey?" Ireland nodded without hesitation, and Scotland smiled even wider and turned around. "See ye later then, Cearul!" And with that, he left.

All through the rest of the morning, midday and afternoon, it was peaceful and quiet. Yet Ireland still could not shake the feeling that something was not right. And later in the afternoon, at about 5.45 p.m, he found out why.

"What?!" he exclaimed, utterly baffled by the news that was just brought to him. A middle-aged Irishman had walked up to him, knowing who he was (which, mind you, most people outside of the government did not, which brought Ireland to believe this man had ties with the government at least) and started telling him about some rumors he'd picked up. "'s all true, sir," the man assured him with a short nod. "Hundreds of 'em Volunteers were just apprehended by the Scots. Heard they had arms with 'em. Rifles." Ireland's heart skipped a beat, both in excitement and in terror. The 1913 Act had stated that the Irish weren't allowed to carry weapons, and now, only a year later, his people were going against it already. He knew it meant they were planning to rise against British rule, he knew it with all his heart and soul, but while the mere thought of freedom filled him with a joy he had not known for centuries, it also filled him to the brim with cold dread. They had fought the English before and lost. Who could guarantee it wouldn't happen again? He still though Home Rule, which he was fighting for once again and this time actually coming close to gaining it, was a better option than using force. So he'd have to stay part of the Empire, big deal. At least he would _live. _In truth, Ireland wouldn't care so much about his own life if he weren't a nation. Without him, there would be no Ireland, and his people would be his no more, Irish no more. That was his major concern.

Without a moment of hesitation, he asked the man, "Have ye heard where they're headed?" The man nodded again and answered, "Right o'er here ta Dublin, sir. Liffey, I think." He made up his mind in a second and, after thanking the man for the information, ran off like a whirlwind to try and get there on time. By the time he got to Liffey, a massive crowd had already gathered there, throwing sticks and rocks and all kinds of curses only Irishmen and -women could know at the Scottish soldiers. And, some, at the Volunteers as well. As quick as he could, he pushed to the front of the crowd to get a look at the men marching into the city, his icy blue eyes searching out one man in particular: he hoped beyond hope that his brother wouldn't be there with them. But the moment he spotted a familiar, messy mop of firey red hair amidst the kilted Scotsmen, his heart sank. He hesitated not a second before running forward to him, calling him with his loudest voice to even be audible over the thundering exclamations of the crowd. "Allistair!" he yelled. "Al, what's going on?!" But his brother hadn't heard. The Scottish soldiers halted, some of them kneeling on the ground and aiming their rifles. One of them, a commanding officer, raised his arm for silence. At that exact moment, Ireland took a firghtened step back, knowing this was the point where everything went wrong. And he was right: some of the Scotsmen had misunderstood the signal and opened fire at the innocent people gathered around. The sound was deafening, like an explosion going off right beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one man drop to the ground, and he knew in an instant he was killed. All he could see around him was panic, chaos, blood. A bullet grazed his arm, but the pain was felt as a sudden, stabbing pain in his heart like he had known only few times before. It took him a moment to register this as the pain a nation feels when their capital -which was quite literally their heart- is under attack or anything of the sort. He gripped his chest with his good arm, hoping to relieve some of the pain through pressure, but no use. It kept burning and stabbing. Somewhere beyond the screaming and panic he heard a voice with a clear, Scottish accent yell a command to stop the fire immediately, and then the sound of guns faded. Ireland didn't grasp much of what was going on anymore now. The world was spinning before his eyes as his chest still hurt so bad, and he felt his legs crumble beneath him. He caught himself on his hands before he could collapse head first onto the ground. His breath came in short, quick and shallow gasps and he felt a strong wave of nausea hit him. Had this happened anywhere else than Dublin, he was sure it wouldn't have had such consequences for him, but a capital was a capital, and the Scotsmen -however unintentionally- had hit him right in the heart without aiming a gun at him. Only a few seconds had gone by before two strong hands grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him up, and when he opened his eyes, not even realising he had closed them before, he looked straight at the horror-stricken face of Scotland. "Cearul!" his younger brother exclaimed, sounding overcome with worry and countless other emotions. "Are ye all right? Have ye-" He was cut off when Ireland slapped him none too kindly, then proceeded to grab him by the throat, choking him. "Control. Yer damned. People." he hissed dangerously from inbetween tightly clenched jaws. He then pushed his brother away, releasing him, but with such force the younger man stumbled backwards and almost fell. Three of the kilted soldiers were already pointing their weapons at Ireland for this, but Scotland stopped them instantly. "If ye shoot that man, I swear, I'm going to tear ye limb from limb!" Ireland didn't listen any further. His mind still cloudy and dazed and the world still spinning under his feet and before his eyes, he turned and left without looking back one moment.

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Later that evening, he had an emergency meeting with Scotland, England and Wales about the incident. "So you're saying the Irish Volunteers your patrol apprehended were carrying arms?" England asked Scotland for clarification, and his older brother nodded. "Though they were not loaded. Some chap called Figgis said he brought them into the country," the red haired man explained in honesty. The young blonde nation then turned to Ireland with narrowed eyes. "This is against last year's Act, Cearul, you know that. Did you have anything to do with this? Answer truthfully: it's best for you if you do." Ireland, who was still feeling rather bad, threw all manners out of the window and huffed. "I did'na 'ave anything ta do with it, Artie," he confessed, speaking the full truth. "I didn't even know my people were planning t'bring arms into the country, let alone meddled with it." Something flashed in England's emerald eyes at that moment, and he narrowed his eyes even furhter. "Are you really sure? And for Heaven's sake, do not call me Artie. It's Arthur." Ireland gritted his teeth and hissed back, "Ofcourse I'm sure! Do you think I'm a traitor? And I'll call you Artie whenever I damn well like! Yer a wee little lad in comparison to me, and I have all the right to do so." With a glare, he added, "Or did you forget that I'm the oldest in here?" He watched as England took a deep breath, a very deep one, to control his anger at the moment. "No, Cearul, I did not," he muttered, not looking his brother in the eye for once. Then he sighed and said in a calm voice, "Look, it weren't only the Irish that were hurt or even killed. One of the dead was the mother of one of those brave young chaps in the English army, to name an example. We were all hit by this, and it was nothing short of a tragedy. But it would be foolish to start a war over this. Scotland," he added, turning to the kilted man as he spoke. "I know the soldiers patrolling the Irish grounds are not... the most admirable of people, but do keep them in check. Something like this must not happen again. Three dead and thirty wounded, one of them even fatally -not to mention they hit Cearul as well- it is unacceptable." Scotland nodded, clearly distraught by the whole incident and determined to prevent anything like it from ever happening again. Then England turned back to Ireland. "And you'd better find out where your people got those arms and what they plan to use them for, and put a stop to it. Do not break the law." A moment of silence followed, and Ireland almost hesitated before nodding. "Ofcourse."

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**Well, that's it for today then XD Might post another chapter tomorrow, might wait a few days, I'll see about that...**

**Please leave a review and tell me what you think! (But no flames please~)**


	3. Chapter 3

**This personally isn't my favorite chapter, but the next is better.**

**That One Guest: thank you so much for that wonderful review! That was probably the best review I've had in ages, I loved reading it. I will try my best to explain the relationship between these brothers in a logical, (hopefully) historically correct way.**

***Warning: this chapter contains quite a lot of swearing. Don't mean anything by it, but... well, it's Ireland. What could you expect...?***

**I hope you'll enjoy this chapter!**

**I do not own Hetalia**

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Ireland didn't know too well where to look for the people involved in the arms-matter. He knew he could rule out Ulster, for they even hated the idea of Home Rule there and prefered to stay a part of the Empire as it was now. Damn fools, he'd always thought, those guys up north. Did they not see England was ruining Ireland, or did they not care one bit? Whatever it was, the Ulster Loyalists would never defy the English law like this. When he got to thinking, it wasn't too hard to guess where they had come from: the trouble had begun in the early morning, probably when the weapons arrived on the Irish shore. Sometime in the afternoon, they had been apprehended, and _marched _into Dublin. Even if they had been walking for hours, it couldn't have been too far away from the capital. And to pick the safest harbour near enough to Dublin, he could only come up with Howth. But that was where the arms would have been _brought into the country._ Surely the masterminds behind this, who managed to keep it a secret even from their nation himself, weren't so stupid as to still be there? But he figured he could always go there and ask around, gather information on this Figgis, who was supposedly the mastermind (he did not believe a word of it) and just search.

And eventually, he found them. They called themselves the Irish Republican Brotherhood, the IRB. The brains behind it all was, so he had heard, a man called Thomas Clarke. He was amazed at how this Brotherhood had existed for so long without him knowing, and he found he respected his people even more because of it. But most of all the name got to him: _Irish Republic._ It sounded wonderful. But it was a far-off dream, as England would never let him go. The only way he could leave was by force. But that, he had tried before, and he had failed miserably.

His major concern now was wether to tell England about this or not. If he did, he would surely restore some of his brother's trust in him, which would eventually make his life and that of his people a lot easier. But if he didn't... _Irish Republic._ His heart skipped a beat and his pulse quickened. It was just _perfect_. And as impossible as it might sound now, he knew that it might one day actually _be_ possible. The IRB was huge, with branches all over the world -even going as far as establishing itself in the heart of the Empire, London- and each and every member was fighting the battle to make Ireland a free, independent Republic. He admired them for their courage and wits. Oposing the British wasn't a laughing matter, nor was it easy to remain a secret organisation for so long. And so, Ireland made up his mind in a matter of minutes: the secret brotherhood would remain a secret for a while yet. Not a word of this would be told.

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The weeks went by: Ireland couldn't be completely sure, but for all he knew, England didn't suspect a thing. The ginger-haired man reported to him small and trivial things, such as Figgis not being the real mastermind behind everything, but that he still hadn't found the man they needed. Scotland had left for his own country again, which was both a relief and a disappointment for the Irishman. The two had never gotten the chance to get that whiskey they had promised eachother, after all. They hadn't even gotten over their fight yet. Ireland simply couldn't forgive him for what had happened that fateful day, not yet at least. He still got a little light-headed from time to time because of the incident, though things were finally looking up again. But things in Europe were starting to get tense, and he heard rumors about an upcoming war with Germany increasingly often. While the Brits worried to no end about it, he noticed some of his own people seeming rather excited about a war. Not for themselves, no, but one in which England was involved. He heard whispers saying "England's war, Ireland's oppertunity" in the streets of Dublin and on the roads in the countryside. But Ireland himself couldn't share their excitement. It seemed to him that they forgot he was still part of the Empire, and a war for England was a war for him. They would all partcipate in it, and most likely, the Irish would be used as bait for the enemies so that the English could finish the job and return home as heroes.

Peace never lasted long, it seemed. Because on August 4 that year, the British Empire declared war on Germany after the Germans had attacked Belgium, a neutral and allied nation, to get to France, who was also an ally of Great Britain.

On that day, Ireland had yet another meeting with his brothers and His Majesty the King, George V and his military advisors. Wales looked nervous, fidgeting a little. Ireland knew very well how much his younger brother hated fighting, as he'd only ever had bad experiences from previous wars. Scotland appeared to be very careful about the matter and remained quiet for most of the meeting, only speaking up to voice his opinion on certain things every now and then. England, on the other hand, though nervous as well, looked eager and determined, and when he got the chance, he didn't hesitate before saying, "I will go with our soldiers to France. Of all the English soldiers, there's no doubt I am the most experienced after all." The King nodded. It was hard to disagree with something as plain as a fact: if you've been fighting wars since your early childhood, which was almost a thousand years ago, there was no question you were the most experienced soldier in the entire nation, after all. "With all our new technology," England went on, his emerald eyes fixed on his King, "we should be able to deal with this rather quickly. Not to mention there'll be two fronts: our front at the West, and at the East, Russia's. We'll have the Germans surrounded completely. And if you recall the last meeting with him, Germany is still barely more than a child. Established in 1871, he's still no older than _fourty-three,_ with the physique of a teenager. His older brother, Prussia, on the other hand, is more of a problem. Though physically also young -about twenty, I'd say- he's centuries old. Just a few younger than I am, in fact, and he's fought at least as many wars." He took a deep breath now and recalled old memories of the nation. "I remember facing him during the War of Austrian Succession, in the eighteenth century. He is a ruthless and intimidating man, and though you wouldn't say so because of his attitude, he's also very intelligent and a great military strategist. Having someone at the front who has dealt with him and his tactics before would give us an advantage." As the blond nation concluded this, the King nodded and thought for a moment before answering. "Very true, Arthur, my boy," he said with a calm voice. "But you shall stay here and guard the British shores." England opened his mouth, about to protest, but closed it again quickly, not wanting to argue with His Majesty. "Now, Allistair," The Scotsman straightened his back when his name was said, and he listened closely to what the King had to say. "You shall accompany the soldiers to France and serve as a General in the army, understood?" Scotland nodded politely and without hesitation. "Ofcourse, Your Majesty." The King then turned to Wales, who tried his best not to flinch before he was even spoken to. "Dylan, you will be in charge of defending the Empire from ashore, while Arthur will have control over the Naval Defense. Having an ex-pirate on our ships will be of great help, I'm sure." Wales nodded almost reluctantly, while England agreed as willing as his brother did, though he had to admit that his experience in battles on the open seas was indeed an advantage. But his past as a pirate was, everytime it was brought up, something he'd rather not discuss and wasn't too proud of. It had been, as he called it, his 'rebellious phase' of when he was a teenager, after all, and he couldn't imagine anyone being proud of their actions during that phase.

Ireland wasn't too satisfied with the plans either, and asked, "Then, Your Majesty, what about-?" He wasn't even given the chance to finish his question as the King answered, "You will be in charge only of defending your own land, should it be necessary. Ofcourse, Irish soldiers will be send to France along with the British, but you will remain home. And on the matter of Home Rule," Ireland's pulse quickened expectantly, and he leaned in just a little closer, wanting to hear every syllable the King had to say on the matter. The answer sunk his heart though. "Any further discussion on it will be delayed until after this war is over. That is all."

Delayed.

Ofcourse. Wasn't that practically the same as cancelling it at this point? Of-fucking-course! He gritted his teeth and took a deep breath to control the rage that was building and fought the urge to storm out of the room in a rather childlike fit, breaking and tearing objects apart on his way home, which he would make screaming loudly about how fucking unfair the world could be and how he wanted to be independent _so fucking goddamned bad._ But he controlled himself. He always controlled himself. He folded his hands, which were on his lap under the table, into tight fists, gripping them so hard his knuckles turned white. And like that, he ignored everything around him as to not explode in anger before the King spoke that final word he so longed for at the moment.

"Dismissed."

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**The start of WW1... has to be adressed as well, right? It plays a rather major part in the Irish Rising and Revolution, after all. **

**Please leave a review and tell me what you think!**


	4. Chapter 4

**I'm seriously wondering where my ability to write long chapters has gone off too... it's not been here for all of Rising so far, at least. Maybe later on...**

**As requested, I've tried a different layout for this chapter, more breaks between lines and such. I hope it's easier to read this way!**

***Warning: mild violence in this chapter. And PoV switches. Beware the PoV switches...***

**I do not own Hetalia.**

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Days had passed in the blink of an eye, it seemed. Scotland had left for France the previous day, and England was already aboard a submarine, serving as the Fleet Admiral. That certainly sounded better than 'Captain', they both agreed for once. Scotland's departure had been quick, leaving little room for goodbyes. The little time Ireland had gotten with him, he'd spent on telling him to stay away from any French _mademoiselles,_ as they wouldn't be able to resist a man that looked so stunning in a uniform. Scotland was quite the handsome young man, and the dark blue uniform he wore -even with the kilt- looked very good on him. And, though Ireland didn't like to admit it, England didn't look to bad in his new military unifrom, either. It was all very different from the uniforms they'd worn during previous wars though: the long, decorated coats were gone, instead it was all very simple (yet rather elegant, Ireland thought), nothing more than a simple insignia to depict one's rank.

Wartime was a strange, uncertain and frightening time, even for a nation. Ireland was worried sick about Scotland from the second he left. While the risk was far slimmer than with human soldiers, war was about the only way to effectively kill a nation. If the personification died while the nation itself lived on, a new personification would take its place. He'd seen it happen before with some of the German States before they were unified as the German Empire. He couldn't stop thinking about what would happen if his little brother died, but tried to push that thought away. Scotland was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, after all. That, and he was also afraid England's submarine wouldn't implode and kill him while he was fighting the Germans off. Now that would've been nice.

And if all that wasn't enough to worry about, there was also the trouble going on in his own country: for example, he'd found out the Irish Volunteers had gotten their rifles from none other than the Germans they were now supposed to fight. And judging from the little information he could gather, his people were really planning a rising in the near future. He really hoped they either wouldn't, or would wait til after the war. Fighting two wars at the same time was about the last thing he needed now. Then again, the same went for England, and if the war started anyway, Ireland had an advantage: being the_ gentleman_ he was, England had decided any damage indirectly caused by a war which involved all of the Empire would fall on him for at least 80%. Indirect damage came from severe losses in battle, which showed itself as bruises and cuts on the body of a nation, or from economical problems caused by a war, which could be anything from a mere cold to a raging fever to even pneumonia. War affected nations greatly even if their landmass was left untouched. And since most damage from this one, however short it would be, would fall on England, perhaps Ireland would stand a chance against him in battle...

* * *

"First of all, men, I would like to make one simple fact clear," England began as he adressed his crew on the submarine, hands folded neatly behind his straight back, chin held high, but low enough not to seem too arrogant. He had to make a decent impression on these young chaps if he wanted them to accept his authority. "Luckily I have a few men aboard who are aware of this fact and can confirm to you what I am about to tell you, so I won't be dragged off to an asylum. I'm sure some of you must have heard the rumors already, and I can tell you now: yes, there really are personifications of nations." He paused for a few seconds, letting his words sink in. He could see some of the soldiers looking at him sceptically already, but he had to make this clear to them if they all wanted to understand eachother in these cramped spaces. "And I, in fact, am one of them. I am England." He paused again, and heard some of the men whisper in confusement or disbelief. He then got to business straight away. "Now that we've got that clear, I want to remind you all that any disobedience _will_ be punished. Punishment for treachery is death. I'd prefer not to do this, but I can't change it. This is war, not playtime, and it is a life or death matter for all of us."

"All of us but you, Sir," one soldier stated bluntly. "If you really _are_ England, there is no way you can die, right, Sir?" England closed his eyes in slight amusement. Common mistake. "In fact, I can," he answered the man, for this once turning a blind eye to his rudeness. "If we lose this war, there is a good chance I'll die. If I get shot by, say, Germany, Prussia or Austria himself -or Hungary _her_self-" Some of the soldiers looked perplexed at the last part, but remained silent. "It will be just like any other human being shot: I might live, but I might die. It's that simple. Now, if there are no further questions or remarks to be made, I would like to continue." He looked at the faces of each and every soldier, and saw one message clear on all of them. With a sigh, he gave in. "I see that you all need proof of what I just told you? Very well. For this once... You," he said, pointing to one random soldier in particular. The poor man almost had a heart attack. "If you would be so kind as to shoot me, please," England continued, a small smile playing on his lips as the soldier almost jumped in shock. "S-shoot you, Sir? B-but why, exactly?"

"To prove to you that I _am _who I claim to be. Now go on, shoot me. Don't hold back: head, heart, stomach, pick whatever you like. But make it lethal, if you please." With shaking hands, the man reached for his gun, which was soon to be confiscated, anyway: before the submarine would leave the English shore, all weapons had to be confiscated. There was no use for them underwater except for the torpedos of the submarine itself, and carrying them around was a dangerous hobby. The man then aimed for the nation's stomach, and after a minute of hesitation and some urging from England, he shot. He hit exactly where he had aimed, and within a tenth of a second after an earsplitting bang, England felt the bullet explode inside of him. It was not really a problem, seeing as the bullet would dissolve quickly and any injury would heal within minutes. That was how the body of a nation worked when hurt by a human, and it was a very convenient thing indeed. But the pain was still the same, and England flinched, keeping his jaws clenched tightly to prevent any more than the "Agh!" he could not supress from escaping his lips. He pressed his hands to the entry wound, feeling warm blood seep out of it and through his fingers, which began to tremble just the slightest. But despite the pain, the wound and the bloodloss he remained standing, and straightened himself after a mere minute, all evidence of the pain that still raged through his belly and midrif gone. "Well," he said, adressing all soldiers again. "I do believe that's settled now."

* * *

"I'm tellin' ye, we'll be home before ye know it," Scotland once again tried to reassure his soldiers as they expressed doubts about the war once again. "An' all will be fine. Ofcourse, not everyone here will make it back 'n one piece, 'live 'n well, but most will, I promise." In all honesty, he wasn't so sure himself. The war would be short, he knew that for a fact, but he didn't think it would be short in favor of the British. Nations had a good feeling of what the outcome of a war would be sometimes, and Scotland now had the feeling something terrible was going to happen in the near future. The war would be short... he just hoped it wouldn't be because they'd be defeated in the blink of an eye. He really _did _want to keep his promise to his men: that all would be fine in the end, no matter the road they had to take and the sacrifices they would make. And once they'd set up camp for the time being, he sat down and began to write his first letter to his brothers. The very first one. Previous wars he had fought either against them or together with them, both being at the front. This was his first time taking up the role of General of the Army, the highest possible rank -except for the navy, where England had the highest rank with 'Admiral of the Fleet'- completely on his own, even though the war was not just his alone.

_August 9, 1914_

_The soldiers are worried already. They doubt that we'll win the war at this rate, even though we've only just started. Germany is a large Empire, with many men in his army, and at least 80% of them are here at the West Front. And if you'd seen traces of what they've done, heard what they did in Belgium, you'd understand fully. I cannot help but share their doubts. I do still believe the war will be a short one, as planned, but I can't help but wonder... in whose favor? The British is a strong, capable army, I know. But worry remains._

_I know I only left two days ago, but I hope all is still well back home. Dylan, would you please stop worrying? I know that I do, too, but that's what I'm the older brother for. It is my duty to worry about your safety, you know, and I always fulfill my duties. And don't let wee Albion get to you: Arthur can be a pain in the ass during wartime, if you recall. He's about the only person alive who manages to take war __too __seriously. And Cearul, for Heaven's sake, don't get homicidal on our wee brother. I know you hate him, and I know he hates you, and I know very well why and agree with the both of you... but we're brothers. We'll always be brothers. And you know what the funny thing about brothers is? They need eachother. Just two days at the Front, and that's what I've realised already. I need you guys here. But... the people home need you more. Protect our home well, my brothers, it's the only one we have. If you promise me that, then I'll promise to give my all here. We __will__ return victorious, I can promise you that._

_Now don't take everything I said too seriously, all right? Spur of the moment, sappy emotional shit... it's not what you need to hear now, right? But do write me back. Even if we move, the letter will find it's way to me. There's just one Alba, after all!_

_~Allistair_

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**And finally I've found the inspiration to write chapter 5 as well, though it's not finished yet. But you can be sure it won't take a week or more to upload it :)**

**I hope you liked it, and please leave a review. Critique is always welcome! (Critique is welcome, not flaming. Do keep that in mind, please)**


	5. Chapter 5

**What's this, Bluesun managed to write a chapter that contains more than 2000 words?**

**For a change, I did... surprised myself a little even XD**

**Thank you for the wonderful reviews and follows, everyone! I hope you'll enjoy the next chapter as well.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

He tried not to worry too much, but it was a hard task. Scotland's letter had worried him quite a bit, naturally. The Scotsman was openhearted about anything but fears and doubts. He'd always keep those to himself as much as he could. But not this time. And there had been radio contact with England, ofcourse, but Ireland hadn't heard anything about it. He didn't really care, though, or at least he tried not to care. But war was still a strange time, and it did strange things to him now. So he casually asked Wales about news, trying to make it seem he wasn't specifically asking about England but rather about the Navy's progress. He was bloody sure Wales knew better, though.

He also didn't want to hear the voices all around him, softly singing for German victory. He too agreed that, with this war slowly weakening England, independence was becoming a more realistic thought every single day. But he was a peaceful man, and didn't want to achieve anything through violence. There was nothing to gain from violence, really. You might get what you want eventually, but Ireland knew very well there were always consequences. He always thought England was in fact a perfect example of this rule. So he ruled a large part of the world and was the head of the greatest empire anyone had ever seen, but the things he'd lost could never be replaced. America was only the beginning, because Ireland hated him now, too, and eventually, so would every 'brother' and 'sister' he had if he continued on like this. Everyone would leave him one day, that was a certainty. Ireland had too much left to lose to risk anything. His people, his good relationship with Scotland, heck, even his sanity and _himself_. He'd always remain himself, no matter what.

He wasn't British, he wasn't pro-German, he was just _Irish_. And he'd never change a damn thing about it.

When one evening, the tiny jolts of pain became too annoying and the constant worry became too tiring, he just went and did the one thing that could relieve any amount of pain, stress, loneliness, boredom and really just every discomfort that existed. To get so wasted he wouldn't remember a thing the next morning. But the pub, he found, wasn't able to provide him the escape he desired so badly. He was just beginning on his fourth pint of Guiness, when some men began singing. They were obviously heavily intoxicated, their words slurred, but he could still easily make out what they were singing. "The Germans will win the war, me boys!" Ireland tried to block out the sound and enjoy his beer, but the task was harder than he thought. When he ordered his fifth Guiness, the barman was grinning wide and said, "Ain't it just perfect, tha war?" Ireland narrowed his eyes at him as he went on, listening with disbelief and horror. "The Germans'll completely wipe out those bloody Brits, an' then we can wipe 'em from our land with ease. I'm tellin' ye, before this war ends, Eire will be free again." Ireland sighed and shook his head. "This war is perfect, y'say?" he replied. "Ye lost yer mind, talkin' such nonsense. What 'bout the Irish soldiers o'er in France? They're bein' killed off beside the English, the Welsh, the Scotish and all the other poor buggers. That's perfect?" The barman just shrugged, clearly not wanting to answer that. Ireland paid him, finished his drink and went out again, staggering just the slightest. If all his people were slowly losing their minds like this, he wasn't sure how much longer he'd be able not to.

* * *

The Romans were invading the woods already. As if a huge camp beside the river wasn't enough yet. In the branches of a tree sat a boy, his pale blond hair covered by a dark green hood. His emerald eyes darted from one Roman soldier to the other, not knowing what to do. All he knew was he had to defend his land, and he would do anything to do this successfully. But how could he ever do it all by himself? "I won't have to," he whispered to himself, his voice as soft as a breeze, as he remembered what his mother had told him before she died. "I have brothers. They will help me." He slowly reached for the bow on his back and then grabbed an arrow from his small, hide quiver. It was all handmade, and though his crafsmanship wasn't the best, his arrows had always been good enough for hunting. But this armor, the silver skins the Romans wore looked smooth and strong, and for a moment he wondered if his arrows would be strong enough to pierce through. But he had to try, he decided, and thus he aimed and shot an arrow, hoping it would be enough. Which it wasn't. The arrow just about managed to cause the soldier he hit to yell something in a foreign language, clearly in pain, but didn't even leave so much as a scratch otherwise, except for the tiny scratch marks on the metal armor. Then, the soldier turned around and searched for the archer, others following his example. The child cursed under his breath, hiding in the shadows of the leaves that surrounded him. But as he moved, his left foot slipped, causing him to lose his balance and fall. The impact with the ground knocked the breath from his lungs and his vision turned white for a brief moment. He then looked up, his pulse racing in sheer terror.

Five Romans were towering above him, smirking, laughing at him, their hands on their swords. One of them kneeled down in front of him, causing the young boy to flinch and crawl backwards, away from the intimidating man who laughed again. "_Timidus es, puer?_" the soldier asked him with a smirk. He reached out to the child, grabbed him by the collar and pulled him towards himself. The child began squirming, kicking and punching the man, but gave up when he nearly broke his knuckles by hitting the steel the man wore. The soldier spit in his face and smashed him against the bark of the tree, dropping him on the ground again. He walked away casually, saying, "_Necate eum."_ On his command, the four other soldiers drew their weapons and surrounded the boy, who closed his eyes in terror and waited for the pain he knew would come.

And no _brother_ ever came for him.

With a jolt, England woke up, bumping his head against the storage space above him. With an annoyed grunt, he pressed a hand to his forehead, rolling over to his side. He still wasn't quite used to how cramped submarines were. His eyes still closed, the nation tried to clear his mind and push away the dream he'd just woken from. Why in the world had he dreamt about _that_? The Roman invasion back when he was still very young had been a traumatic part of his past, as he had been attacked by them almost constantly and they didn't seem to mind torturing a toddler. Especially when he'd faced the Roman Empire himself, he'd feared for his young life. The man had first claimed there was a good chance England, or Albion at the time, was his bastard son as he'd been in a relationship with his mother Brittania not long before, then proceeded to stab him in the stomach a few times and left him for dead in the woods. Charming man, really.

And for Heaven's sake, why was he still feeling that bloody pain from the dream? He was awake now, his mind cleared, so why did it still hurt? He placed one foot on the metal floor now, closely followed by the other, and got up slowly, careful not to hit his head against the low ceiling again. But the moment he stood, he collapsed and hit the floor with a dull thump. His hands went to his abdomen, where the pain seemed to burn his insides to ashes. The army was losing a battle, he knew now, and it wasn't just a relatively small battle either. He thanked the heavens that he at least had his own room in this blasted submarine. 'Own room' being the poor excuse of a bed everyone had and then a stunning square meter all to himself. At least no one had to see him now. The last thing he needed now was for his soldiers to see him curled up on the floor (curled up only because of the lack of space, mind you) clutching his stomach in pain and gritting his teeth.

The moment the pain subsided a little, he unbuttoned a part of his shirt and inspected the damage. In the end, there had been no open wound forming, much to his relief. Instead a dark, purplish-blue bruise roughly the size of his hand had formed just under his midrif. With a sigh, he got up slowly, ignoring the remains of the pain. It had subsided mostly by now, no more intense than a nagging stomach ache. Buttoning his shirt back up, he looked at the small storage space under his bunk. It was where he kept papers, notes on certain things and his clothes. Above his bed was also a small storage, used mainly for the same things. The space he had to sleep wasn't even half a meter in height. After he'd put on his coat, he used the back of a silver insignia as a tiny mirror, hoping he didn't look too bad. He was Admiral of the Fleet, he had to at least look the part. To his disappointment, his reflection was rather pale, and he hoped it was just the cold metal having this effect on it. If he didn't at least _look_ like nothing was wrong, it might well discourage the soldiers, and he didn't want anything like that to happen. He just gave one last sigh, then went to do his job for the day, pretending nothing had happened.

* * *

Wales, softly rubbing the sore spot under his midrif, reached for his telephone and dialed Ireland's number. He was worried about him, but especially Scotland and England. He knew something had happened in France, and he hoped Scotland hadn't been involved in it and that the impact it had on England hadn't been too great. Wales just got a small part of the damage, after all, but it had hurt even him pretty bad for a moment. "Oh, just pick up the phone, you_ hurtyn,_" he muttered, annoyed by how long it took his oldest brother to answer the call. And when he eventually did answer, Wales got a strong urge to go over to Ireland that instant and slap some sense into him. "Wha's 't...?" Ireland's voice came, soft, unfocused and... and for Heaven's sake, slightly _slurred_. "Dyl'n, lad, what'd ye call me fer so early...?"

"Well, first of all, Cearul," Wales said, anger dripping from his voice. "It's already 7 a.m. and you should be up by now anyway. Second," He took a deep breath to get his voice steady again, not letting the anger he felt sound through too much. "I was worried about you, since the army has just suffered a loss. I'd call the others, too, if I could, but..." A silence fell for a moment until Ireland asked, sounding dazed, "We lost...?" Wales now felt like hitting his head against a wall. Well, his own or Ireland's, that is, preferably the latter. "Ofcourse we have, you idiot! Or have you not noticed the bruising at all?"

"Must'a slept through it, then," was Ireland's flat answer. "Did'na feel a thing. Y'alright though, laddie? Ye sound pissed 'bout some'ing." Wales could just scream right now. "Ofcourse I'm angry you stupid wanker!" he answered, managing to raise his voice only a little. "You've been drinking last night, haven't you? Gods, how can you even think 'bout alcohol when two of our brothers are fighting in this war and we're _losing_. You must have noticed the tiny stabs and stinging the past few days!" Ireland waited until Wales was done with his short rant before he answered, not wanting the rage that would come if he'd interrupt his little brother now. "Tha's exactly why I went," he reasoned. "I needed some distraction, 'lright? What with everyt'ing happening in Europe, not t'mention me own people losin' their minds collectively, singin' fer the Germans and whatnot. Why dun'ye go as well? Might be just the right thing fer ye now." Wales muttered a soft response and a goodbye, then ended the call. He'd never understand Ireland, he was sure of that.

But then, Wales suddenly recalled a detail Ireland had mentioned. Judging by how casually he'd been speaking, it was a slip up and he hadn't meant to say it if he'd been thinking about his words before speaking. _Singing for the Germans._ Did that mean the Irish were planning to betray the Empire, working with the enemy during this war? He couldn't be sure, but he made a quick note of it, which he would send to the government later that day and hoped to get through to England as well. If the Irish would betray them in the end and he hadn't mentioned a thing, he'd feel guilty about it for the rest of his eternal life, he was sure. But a slight guilt made its way into his heart now, too, and as he sent a telegram, he whispered, "I'm sorry, Ireland..."

* * *

**The battle that caused this damage is the Battle of the Frontiers, which was fought between August 7 and September 13 1914. The Germans were particularly succesful in this battle, with 29,597 British casualties and 329,000 French.**

**Now for the Latin translations... "Are you afraid, boy?" and "Kill him".**

**Thanks for reading and please leave a review!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Okay, next chapter, I swear, it will be less WWI and more Easter Rising again! Even though the two belong together, more or less... But whatever.**

**Thank you for the reviews, faves and follows, everyone!**

**Now, for a bit of my headcanon I forgot to explain in the last chapter: England being the son of Rome and Brittania. Especially the Rome part. If I'm not mistaken, the Romans started the first thing relatively close to modern civilisation like they did in France, Italy and even half of the Netherlands over here. And 'the camp beside the river' little England mentioned... Well, guess what? It were the Romans that founded London!... more or less. So, considering the Romans created modern day England's capital -his heart- I do believe we could assume Rome is his father. Which would, ofcourse, make him a half-brother to France and the Italies (or uncle to the Italies, if you prefer them as Rome's grandsons) but let's not think about that for all the Fruk shippers out there... (Then again, England is like a brother/father to America and yet there are so many USUK shippers as well o.0)**

**Do forgive my blabbering, here is the chapter: (and I do not own Hetalia)**

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Scotland breathed out a puff of smoke before sticking his cigar back between his lips, a small hiss escaping his mouth as the deep gash on his shoulder was being disinfected. It stung like bloody hell, even without that filthy stuff rubbed into it. But at least he'd been one of the lucky guys, surviving yet another major battle, unlike so many others. The German army was a great one, he had to admit. The men were very capable, and they had a lot of them in their ranks. While in battle, Scotland thought he'd seen a glimpse of Germany himself: if so, the boy wasn't exactly a boy anymore. He'd grown a few centimeters since their last meeting, and his body was packed with muscle. England's theory hadn't been correct, after all: it seemed Germany was as much a threat these days as Prussia was. The brothers were formidable opponents, that was for sure.

"Sir? General, Sir?" a voice suddenly tore him away from his thoughts, and he shook his head briefly to clear his mind again. The medic that had been treating his shoulder was now kneeling in front of him, looking at him with slight worry. "Ah, there you are again," he sighed in relief, his mouth twisting into a tiny smile as the nation looked at him. "I've called you five times now. You seemed to be drifting off..." The medic narrowed his eyes for a brief moment, inspecting Scotland again with that worry. "Are you all right, Sir? You sure it's only your shoulder?"

Scotland nodded, forcing a grateful and reassuring smile onto his face. Smiling was becoming a hard thing to do these days. "'t Is. Thank ye fer treating it: 't was becoming a bloody pain in th'arse. " The medic got to his feet again and shook his head slowly. "I cannot believe you walked around with that without disinfecting it for two days, Sir. You should've lost your arm by now." Now, the smile became genuine, and the nation got up as well, saying, "Nae fer me. We heal a lot faster than humans do, an' can survive far more grave injuries. Feckin' hurts, though."

"I'm sure it does," the medic answered with a smirk. "You're free to go now, Sir, though I strongly advise you to not use that arm until the wound is fully healed. Just to be on the safe side." Scotland mumbled something in agreement and left the infirmary, glad to be out of that place. Too many wounded, too many dying. He couldn't stand the place. It was only there to remind him war was a pointless, hopeless thing, yet could not be avoided in the eternal life of a nation. What most humans simply couldn't understand, was that personifications of nations were just as human as them. They had the same emotions, felt the same pain and despair and the same joy. They had their personal histories as much as the national history, memories and hopes for the future. They went through the same phases of ups and downs. The only difference was the eternity.

He sat down at the desk in his tent and began writing again.

_September 15, 1914_

_First of all, I want to apologise for my handwriting: I'm afraid my right hand is out of order at the moment. Nothing big, just a cut in the shoulder, is all. Don't you get all worried over me now, got it?_

Scotland sighed and rubbed his eyes for a moment, which were threatening to close any moment now. _Nothing big,_ he'd written. What a lie it was: the cut was almost bone-deep, and had torn a lot of muscle. He could for some reason still move it, but that was about all. For a moment he considered writing the truth about his current condition, but went with the lie that was already on paper: it was for the best.

_As you must've noticed already, there has been a great battle going on over the past weeks. In fact, I believe it has been over a month already. Amazing, how long those things can take, ain't it? I don't have exact numbers, but from what I've heard, tens of thousands of our people have died in this battle alone, which started practically the moment I got here. I hope the three of you are all right? Please write me about your current conditions, all of you. Well, I suppose Dylan or Cearul could write for Arthur, him being under water and all. But I want to hear how you're all doing._

_That is all I have to say now. To be honest, I just want to lay down and sleep for a week. Gods, my eyelids feel like they're being pulled closed by tiny strings attached to rocks! You must know that feeling, right? So I'll be going now._

_~Allistair_

_P.S. ...I'm afraid I might not come home in time for Christmas after all._

* * *

"Yes, I thought so already, little brother o'mine," Ireland sighed as he read the post scriptum on Scotland's latest letter. He folded it closed and placed it on his desk, then placing a hand on his head. It felt like it was going to burst any moment now. Situations threatening to become a civil war could cause quite the headache, he knew from experience, and now there was the Irish Volunteers against the Ulster Volunteers. There hadn't been any fighting so far -at least, nothing that included firearms- but it sure was coming close. Home Rulers against none-Home Rulers. In all honesty, he'd join the Irish Volunteers without a second thought if he had to choose between the two, but he had to admit Ulster was a part of him, too, the views of the Ulster Loyalists along with it.

He looked at the letter one last time, then smiled and said, "You know what, Al? I think I'm goin' off ta bed now, too. 's Gettin' late, an' I'm tired. G'night, me little brother." He turned off the lights in his study and went straight to his bedroom. He couldn't even be bothered to put away his clothes neatly, he just threw them on the ground and curled up on his bed. As he drifted into sleep quickly, he was haunted by nightmares.

He was trembling all over, feeling frozen to the core. The layers of clothes he wore did nothing to keep him warm, and there wasn't much more to his body anymore than skin and bone to protect him from the harsh cold, either. He'd gone through famines before, but not one of them had been quite as harsh as this one was. More often than not, there wasn't _any_ food at all, and when there was, he made sure his people ate first. Only if there was something left over, did he eat as well, no matter how much some of them insisted he take care of himself.

Immortality was a cruel thing, he'd decided over and over during that time. He couldn't count the times he'd wished death would take him like it did so many of his people, but death never came. Instead, he was being tortured, made to suffer longer than any human ever could. Immortality was a cruel thing, and he prayed to be mortal then. His prayers weren't heard. Not once.

By then, the hunger had made him too weak to do much more than sit and tremble, slipping in and out of consciousness, hoping every time he closed his eyes would be the last. One day, his little brother, the bloody tyrant, visited him, bringing along some bread. Almost as if he wanted to help, Ireland thought grimly. He knew better though: England just wanted to look like the gentleman he claimed to be, instead of the monster he truly was. "Just look at you," he'd said to his starving older brother, tearing of a handful of the bread and holding it out to Ireland. "Here, eat this. You've got to eat something, after all." If he hadn't been starving as much as he was, Ireland would've flat out refused to take the food. It wasn't helping his pride one bit. As he was nibbling on it, the first food he'd touched in over a week at the time, let alone eaten, he listened to what his brother had to say with reluctance. "Cearul, this is why I always tell you to take better care of your people: a whole season's worth of crops, ruined... You see what it leads to now, don't you?"

Anger flaring up inside him, Ireland glared at England with dull blue eyes. "You could always stop importing our beef," he stated with a nasty edge to his rasping voice. "You know, so _we_ have food as well." England just raised an eyebrow at him. "Surely you're joking? My people need to eat, too, and it is not their fault yours are such agricultural failures. No, Cearul, let this be a lesson: you make sure your people are looked after, and everything will be fine." Not wanting to discuss any more of it, England got up, reaching for his brother and briefly stroking him through his ginger hair gently. His emerald eyes showed no such gentleness, twinkling mockingly. "Now eat up, brother. I didn't bring that food with me for nothing: you need your strength, if you want to stay alive." He then turned around, leaving Ireland to stare after him in shock and fear. England's last words to him had seemed like nothing short of a threat.

* * *

England was wide awake again once he'd read Wales' report. "What?!" he couldn't help exclaiming, his eyes nearly popping out of his skull. "The bloody traitor! Oh, I swear, Cearul-!" A soldier tapped him on the shoulder, asking, "Sir, may I ask what the problem is? It is also advisable not to raise your voice in here, Sir, if I may remind you." England shook his head, apologising for his mistake. "Ofcourse, ofcourse, excuse me. It's... The moment we're ashore, Ireland will be in a world of trouble, mark my words." He crumpled the piece of paper in his fist, gritting his teeth. "How dare he support the Germans? If that's what he wants, then I swear to God, the wanker shall get what's coming to him."

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**I hope you liked it a bit. Ireland's dream was, obviously, a reference to Black '47, which I have mentioned before.**

**Please leave a review and tell me what you think!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Long chapter here! I succeeded again...**

**And, as promised, this chapter contains more of the Rising plot again and less WWI. Still contains the war, though.**

**Thank you for another review, That One Guest!**

**Now, I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

Snow was slowly drifting from the sky, covering the ground as a soft white blanket. Where at first, time seemed to fly, the past few months had crawled by. Tonight was Christmas Eve, and Ireland wished he could take Scotland to a pub and finally share the whiskey they'd promised eachother so long ago. But Scotland was still over in France, fighting. England had come back about a week ago, and had to leave again before the year ended. The two hadn't seen eachtother yet, and Ireland hadn't been planning to see him, either. But, since it was Christmas, he guessed he could make an exception. Rather, he didn't want to be alone right now, and Wales was decent company. England, he'd just have to put up with, which he thought he could do for just one special occasion.

Going through the streets, he adjusted his shawl a bit before sticking his hands back into his pockets. It was either very cold outside or it _felt_ cold, and he could come up with quite some reasons why it would be the latter. He passed many people on his way to the harbor, most of them greeting him with a 'Merry Christmas'. He could only smile in return, couldn't get the words 'Merry Christmas' over his own lips. It wasn't a merry Christmas this year. Not like this. Not during a war.

He got onto a boat to get to Wales, from where he would go to England's house, where he knew both of his brothers would be by the time he'd get there. Which was during sunset. He just knocked on the door, hoping it was loud enough to be heard. Waiting for the door to be opened by Wales or England, he took a step back and inspected the house he was standing in front of. England had two, on up near the northern border with Scotland, and one in a quieter area of London. That was one of the things they had in common: they liked peace and quiet in their evenings and mornings. It always surprised Ireland how modest both of England's homes were. He always struck him as the type to show off with some huge house, but he wasn't at all. In fact, Ireland had once heard Wales and Scotland laughing about England's idea to just get a three-room appartment for his home up north, and how the King had told him to look for a proper house, as their nation should not be living in an _appartment. _"But, Your Majesty," England had said, "living alone gets lonely sometimes, and a small place doesn't have that effect as much. So if I-"

"Still, the answer is no!" the King had protested. "You're our nation and you should have a proper place to live instead of _that_." After a moment of silence, much to the three older brothers' amusement, he'd added, "And what do you mean, _lonely_? From what I've heard, during your pirating years, you weren't lonely _a single night._ Even less so than France!" England had gone red as a tomato at that, and uncomfortably he'd muttered, "I-I'll just go and look for a small house, then..."

Ireland smiled fondly at those memories. His years with England hadn't all been bad, there'd been plenty of times he could laugh, either at him or even with him on rare occasions. Then, suddenly, the door opened, revealing Wales. The younger nation's eyes widened slightly when he saw Ireland, some hint of shock in their mossy green depths, but he just smiled and stepped iside to allow him inside. "Why am I not surprised?" he laughed, closing the door behind his brother then turning to him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. Ireland returned the hug. There were only two days a year he could get close to enjoying hugs, and those were Christmas Eve and 's Day. "Good to see you again, Cearul," Wales said softly. "How long has it been now? Mid October?" Ireland grinned and patted his little brother on the back. "Somethin' like that." He let go of Wales again, looking away for a moment. "How d'ye think Al's doin'?" Wales' smile faded slightly. "We just got a letter from him yesterday. Said he'd had 'something great planned for them damn Germans' today. He added we shouldn't worry as it wasn't anything dangerous, but I don't know. I don't trust it."

"Neither do I," Ireland said grimly, his mind working twice as hard as normal, trying to figure out what Scotland could've meant by that. He couldn't figure it out if he had to add 'nothing dangerous' to it. Then he saw Wales shake his head and smile again, though it seemed forced. "But let's do as he told us, hm? Just get your ass to the living room, Cearul, I'll go get you some tea. Or would you prefer whiskey? I dunno if Artie has that, though... perhaps ale." Ireland shook his head now, too, and said, "No, no, tea'd be fine. I dun'wanna bother you an' Artie by bein' drunk t'night." Then he went to the living room.

* * *

"Okay, men, this may be th'best thing we've done since this bloody war started," Scotland adressed his soldiers as they were marching through the snow to the camp of the German troops. With a smirk, he added, "I hope ye'll enjoy beatin' the crap out of 'em Germans." It took them an hour to reach the Germans. The moment they heard the British troops coming, they all went to get their weapons, clearly not havin anticipated to face their enemies on Christmas. Scotland saw both Germany and Prussia among them, the albino almost invisible amongst all the snow if it weren't for his Prussian Blue uniform. Bursting into sudden laughter, Scotland raised both arms and called out to the two brothers, "Oi! Would'na be fair t'attack men who dun'ave arms with 'em, now would it? We're not here t'fight, ya know!" They seemed to still be on high guard, but at those words, the German troops halted and stared at them with narrowed eyes. "Then vhat _are _you here for?" Prussia yelled back, holding onto his rifle, ready to attack when he needed to. Scotland gestured one of his soldiers to show them the reason: he threw a football into the German camp, which the Germans stared at wide-eyed. "Surely ye dun'want t'fight on Christmas? Just here fer a nice, _peaceful_ round o'football." The Germans, in German ofcourse, seemed to consider this amongst themselves, and one of them replied in badly pronounced English, "Ve'll beat you in a second!" An Irish soldier called back, "Oh, really now? We'll see 'bout that, Krautz!"

Before Scotland knew, the soldiers from both sides were starting to play football together, and the red haired nation just sat down somewhere and watched. Not too far away stood Germany and Prussia. The albino laid a hand on his little brother's shoulder with a grin, asking, "Vhy don't you go as vell, Ludwig? Should be fun." The young Germany shook his head. "_Ich will nicht, Bruder, _is all." Prussia started laughing loudly, patting Germany on the back. "Vell, if you don't go, I vill!" He then ran off, over to the soldiers that were already in the middle of a game. "Hey, Tea-suckers!" he yelled to them. "Next round, ze Awezome Me is joining in, so look forward to getting your _arsches_ kicked!" Even Scotland began laughing at this, before he looked over to Germany, who sat down and inspected the game just like him. He was surprised about him not joining in: nations were children through most of their first centuries, becoming teenagers after roughly a millenium. Germany was only fourty-three, so he should, at least at heart, still be a young child. He was an adolescent now only because his Empire had grown so strong so fast. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw Germany's blue eyes twinkle hopefully as he watched the game, biting his lip. Prussia had noticed this while running after the ball as well, and when his game was done, he ran back to his little brother, faking exhaustion. "Phew!" he gasped, a broad smile crossing his snow-white face. "Ze Awezome Me is beat! Go take over for me, _mein kleiner bruder, _and be awezome!" After a bit of hesitation, the young blond nation got to his feet and joined in the game anyway.

As Scotland watched this, smiling, Prussia went over to him and let himself fall to the ground beside him. "Vell, this sure vas a Christmas present, Scottie!" he laughed, his crimson eyes sparkling with joy as he looked up to his enemy beside him. "How did you come up vith ze idea?" Scotland chuckled for a moment, confessing, "Nah, 'twas me men. I dun'like football that much, so I'd never 'ave come up with it meself. They all seem t'be enjoying themselves, though." Prussia laughed again, nodding in agreement. "They sure do! Y'know, I came here specially for Ludwig, so he wouldn't be alone on the battlefield with Christmas. _Er is noch ein Kind,_ after all, and I didn't vant his first Christmas during vartime to be without his awezome _bruder._" The Prussian then looked up to Scotland again, the smile suddenly gone from his face. "You don't have your brothers here today, do you?" Scotland shook his head silently, to which Prussia sat up, sighing. "Must be _scheisse._" Ofcourse Scotland didn't understand what it meant, but he just nodded, agreeing.

Suddenly, Prussia put an arm around Scotland's shoulders and grinned at him. "No matter, you've got me today! Ve can have an awezome drinking contest, _und _I'll give you some real _Deutsch Bier!_" Scotland grinned back at him, accepting the challenge. Maybe, just maybe, he'd enjoy his Christmas after all.

* * *

Only when he walked into the living room, where England was busy looking over some papers (working on Christmas Eve, seriously now? Ireland thought as he saw this) did Ireland realise what a mistake coming here had been. England's emerald eyes immediately darted over to him instead of his work, and a burning anger was instantly visible in them. "You!" the Englishman exclaimed, jumping to his feet and walking over to his brother. He halted in front of him, grabbing him by the black tie he was wearing. "How dare you!" England went on, gritting his teeth in sheer rage as Ireland tried to pull himself free. But the Englishman's grasp was too strong, and he himself was too surprised to react properly. "Supporting the Germans... Cearul, have you completely lost your godforsaken mind?!"

Finally, Ireland managed to free himself enough to breathe at the very least. Gods, England might be shorter and lighter built than him, he was damned strong when he was angry. "I haven't been supporting the Germans in any way!" the Irishman defended himself. He then felt England's grip slacken, though judging by how the look in his eyes hadn't changed, it wasn't because his little brother _wanted _to let him go. Then realisation hit him: England couldn't keep that strength up long. In that instant, Ireland noticed all kinds of tiny details about his little brother. He was paler than usual and there were dark circles under his eyes, which were slightly bloodshot and weren't as bright as they usually were. The war was starting to get to him.

"Don't lie to me, brother!" England yelled, taking a step back as he lost grip on Ireland completely. "Your people are becoming pro-German Socialists! Don't think such things weren't reported to me just because I wasn't here." Ireland opened his mouth to protest, but he wasn't even given the chance to speak. "Now get out of here, traitor! Until you've got your people in check, I don't want to see your bloody face even _near _my home!" From the corner of his eyes, Ireland saw Wales enter the room, who was staring at the scene wide-eyed. Ireland couldn't care less at the moment. He turned around and made his way out of the house, not wanting to be there a second longer. "Fine then, I'll go!" he yelled, and as he was about to close the front door, he added, "Merry Christmas, wanker!" Then he slammed the door closed behind him an disappeared into the fog and snow.

"Arthur!" Wales exclaimed, shocked and hurt and angry all at the same time. "Can't you even _try _to get along with him for just tonight?" England's chest and shoulders were rising and falling rapidly as he averted his gaze, still gritting his teeth. Wales set the teapot he still had in his hands away and went on, "He just came here to celebrate Christmas with us, you know. Well, not exactly _celebrate_ as there's nothing _to _celebrate, but you know what I- Arthur?" He shot his younger brother a worried glance as he heard him cough, and he was beside him in a second when the younger nation began swaying slightly. Wales held him by the shoulders to keep him on his feet, then placed one hand on his forehead, which was getting damp again. "Shit," he muttered under his breath as he felt the warmth radiating from his brother's skin. "Your fever's gone up again. Here, sit down..." He led him to the couch, where he sat down beside him, still keeping one arm around his shoulders, which were beginning to tremble. England inhaled, his breath raspy as he held back another cough, then muttered, "How dare he support the Germans -or at least not do a thing to stop his people from doing so- while this war could be the death of us all...?"

* * *

Ireland, after this incident, didn't exactly have a lot of thinking to do anymore. The hardest work he had now was finding out how he could do what he had made up his mind to do. It took him a bit of searching, but already on New Year's Eve, he found himself with his hand over his heart, taking the oath. When he had finished and he was an official member of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, sworn to protect the land from the British opressors and ready to give his life to free his people, a man walked over to him and shook his hand. "Welcome to the IRB," he said, introducing himself. "The name's Tom Clarke. And yours was... Cearul, you said? Let's hope your name fits your personality, lad."

Ireland nodded. He was a peaceful man by heart, but there was a damn good reason why he had chosen Cearul to be his human name. "It does," he reassured Clarke, a small smirk crossing his face.

Cearul meant fierce in battle.

* * *

**The Christmas on the battlefield part... I couldn't help it. I _had_ to write it! As most already know, during Christmas 1914, the British and the German troops celebrated together by playing football/soccer, and I've heard some even had dinner together. Ofcourse, the following day, they continued shooting eachother unfortunately.**

**Well, I hope you liked it, and please leave a review!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Personally I'm not too satisfied with this chapter, but I hope you'll like it anyway...**

**I do not own Hetalia.**

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"At the moment," one of the higher ranking members of the IRB began explaining to Ireland as the two sat in the nation's living room just outside of Dublin. "We have a man over in Germany, trying to secure an Irish Brigade and firearms. We receive our funds from Irish-Americans. You could say Irishmen and -women from all over the world are working to gain independence." The man paused and looked at Ireland, inspecting him. Even though he'd been ordered to trust the nation with everything he knew, he couldn't quite believe the truth yet. How could anyone believe it if they were talking to their _nation_, of all... 'people'? Ireland just nodded and asked, "An Irish Brigade... how, exactly?"

"Prisoners of War," the man answered, his voice strained. He then sighed and shook his head. "Look, I know that what I've been told is the truth, I just need to get used to it yet. And giving away all this information to someone whose _brother_ is _England_..." Ireland smiled. He could imagine what the man was feeling about all this, but he shook his head and reassured him, "As you can imagine, the two of us aren't exactly close. Plus, Arthur's miles away at the moment, deep under water. There's no way I can contact him and tell him _anything._"

The man nodded again, apologised, and continued telling Ireland the plans and progress made so far. It was already the end of January 1915, and for the first time in over six months, time seemed to fly once again. And to Ireland, it flew right towards a bright new era.

* * *

"I cannae believe it!" Scotland exclaimed as he read through recent reports. One of them was news from the Russian front at the East, this particular letter written by Russia himself. "Them feckin' Germans 'ave violated the Hague Peace Conference!" He handed the letter over to a lower-ranking General, fuming. "How dare they use fatal gas! As if 'em teargas attacks weren't bad enough, blinding me soldiers!" As the other General, an Englishman, was reading the letter, he asked the nation, "It doesn't state here which gas was used, but you seem to have an idea which one it was?"

Scotland nodded. "'Twas Chlorine, must be. They've used it on some English soldiers from me troops earlier this month, killing 140 of 'em. I hoped that was as far as they'd go, but this! Unblievable."

"It says here the gas froze and failed to have effect though, Sir," the General stated, tapping the paper. Scotland laughed. "O'course it froze, 'tis Russia! But have ye read th'amount used? Thousands o'shells." Still fuming, he went to his desk and began writing to Wales. So much for his new drinking buddy. Prussia was a cold hearted monster after all.

* * *

England did not like being back on the submarine, not even the slightest. After a staggering six days off, he'd been send back and had been under water for a month again now. Only difference this time, was the economical troubles were getting to him more and more with the week. The cramped spaces weren't helping his dizziness, nor was the constant swaying of the water. But he kept telling himself to put up with it: he'd been a pirate for _years_, spending months and months on end at sea, even with war, even with economical troubles. He'd had to be nearly dying if you wanted to get him off his beloved ship. But in here, the constant beeping, the sound of the water everywhere around him, the voices of the soldiers, the _constant noise._ It was splitting his head right in half.

"Sir, are you sure you're all right?" a soldier asked him as he leaned against a wall to catch his breath and steady his legs again. That was a worrysome thing, he had to admit. He'd never had as much trouble breathing during a war as he did now, and he just couldn't wrap his head around the meaning of it. England nodded, carefully as to not get too dizzy again. Wars he was okay with, so long as he had a chance of winning, but the economy getting ruined because of it was another story completely. "I'm perfectly fine, it's just the economy feeling the consequences of warfare," he reminded the soldier. Everyone aboard was aware of this now, and England hated that almost as much as his own current condition. He knew the soldiers were worried more about their own safety everytime a new wound appeared on their nation's body than they were of him, though, and he was glad of that at least. He didn't want them to worry at all, but if they had to, he'd rather it wasn't about him.

* * *

Months went by, in which Ireland mostly trained Volunteers to use firearms and had plenty of meetings with Clarke, Patrick Pearse and other members of the IRB, as well as Devoy, an Irish-American who was also one of the brains behind the whole undertaking. And despite so many things, the future really _did _seem bright again, and he was once again filled with hope. This would work, this had to work, and he and his people would finally be free.

The men of the Brotherhood were talking about needing one simple thing -to find out what the people of Ireland really wanted. And that came at the very end of July that year, when Jeremiah O'Donovan Rossa, who was considered to be an old Irish hero, died. Many people attended his funeral, amongst which ofcourse key members of the planning of the Rising, like Clarke and Figgis, and giving a speech was Patrick Pearse. He began in Irish, filling Ireland with pride. His people did still speak their original tongue, even if English had become the main language, and he was glad they did. Eventually, Pearse said something surprising, to which Ireland listened wide-eyed. "...we pledge to Ireland our love, and to English rule in Ireland our hate."

Hate was an intense word, the absolute top of dislike. And it was exactly right in this sentence. He _hated_ being under England's rule, and he knew his people did too, deep inside. "Life springs from Death," Pearse continued, "and from the graves of patriot men and women spring living nations." Ireland listened intently, not wanting to miss even a single word. This was an unusual speech for a funeral, but it was also the best he'd heard in years. It struck him right in the heart, and glancing around, he knew it did the same to the men and women around him. When Pearse had finished, Ireland experienced the one thing he had never experienced before: applause on a cemetery, the singing for Irish heroes amongst their graves. His heart seemed to stop for a moment, time was slowing down, no sound but the singing and cheering reached his ears. He realised then, that his people didn't want their freedom at all. _They needed it._

He had a short word with Pearse afterwards, who agreed with him on this. "In a year's time," he said to the nation, "if everything goes according to plan, the Rising should take place. There's no telling what will happen immediately after that, but we will be free again soon, I promise you that." His lips twisted into a small, confident smile. "We're all fighting for you." But Ireland shook his head, protesting against this, "I should be the one fighting for my people, not the other way around. Yet I feel like I haven't done anything yet..." He sighed, to which Pearse placed a hand on his shoulder, reassuring him, "But you will. We cannot achieve anything without you, but you cannot achieve anything without us either. This is a matter in which we all have to work together. Nation and people... aren't we the same, anyway? Part of eachother?" Ireland could only agree with his words.

* * *

Breathing was becoming a real pain, and eventually, England could hardly think about anything else anymore. Every breath he took hurt, making him dizzy with slight lack of oxygen, blurring his vision. He'd fallen against a wall more than once, unable to keep his balance because of the world spinning around him. But now it was reaching the point where he was almost scared. Something about this just wasn't right: it had never happened before in any other war, and it most definitely wasn't a common symptom of a bad economy. And besides, it was being affected by the war, but his economy wasn't _that bad_. Not yet, at least.

He was in the middle of giving instructions to some of his men when he broke into a harsh coughing fit. It felt like sandpaper was covering every inch of his lungs and throat, and he doubled over with the force of it. He couldn't even stop to take one little gasp of breath for over a minute, when two of his men held him up by the shoulders. "Sir, you should sit down for a moment," one of them suggested, worry evident in his voice. "This is going too far." For this once, England had to agree with them as black blotches were appearing in his vision, which was once again blurry. Gasping for breath while he still could, feeling another wave of coughs rising up in his lungs quickly, he did as they said and sat down for a moment. With the next round of coughs came also a vaguely familiar taste and a warm feeling against the fingers he'd clasped over his mouth. "Sir!" one of the men exclaimed in shock and fear as he saw blood dripping from the nation's fingertips. "Sir, are you all right?" It was a stupid question, obviously, but what else could he ask? England shook his head slowly, panting by the time the fit had passed. "S-something's happening in France," he rasped, trying to focus his swaying vision. "But I-" He broke off, coughing yet again, ending in retching. He threw up about a mouthful of blood and absolutely nothing else, nearly giving his soldiers a heart attack. But none of them was given any time to think or react to this when the nation swayed where he sat, collapsing onto the ground. He was unconscious before he even hit the floor. "SIR!"

* * *

**I still find it weird to write about real people rather than fictional characters, but I suppose, since I don't use them much, it's okay...**

**I know this chapter was a bit messy, I'm sorry about that. The next will be more organised again, I promise.**

**For the next (few) chapter(s), I do have a slight warning: heartbreaking stuff coming up. I like torturing myself when writing and then torturing my readers~ ... Well, not that much, but this is _drama_ after all, so there has to be heartbreaking stuff, right?_  
_**

**So look forward to that *insert grin here*. Thank you for reading and I hope you liked it anyway. And on your way out, please leave a review and tell me what you think!**


	9. Chapter 9

**A longer chapter again for a change...**

**And -thank you for another review by the way!- to clear things up, as That One Guest pointed, the story has been pretty heartbreaking already. So when I say heartbreaking stuff is coming up, I do not mean those meant to shatter your heart but the things that dance on its grave. If you get what I mean. It is not my intention to make anyone cry, but if I do... to a writer, that's a great compliment. So if I manage to do so... yay. And sorry.**

**Hope you like it though!**

**I do not own Hetalia**

* * *

Wales was overcome with worry as he was on his way back home again. The constant stinging in his chest had been annoying to him, but with England, as he'd just heard, it had caused enough damage to kill a human. Thank god he was a nation, or else Wales had a good chance of losing his little brother. His older brother, too, as he hadn't heard from Scotland in weeks. He knew from his own aches that battles on the front were more frequent now, so Scotland was just busy fighting, but it worried him to no end. He just wanted to know how his older brother was doing. He remembered being little, just a very young nation, and snuggling up to Scotland at that time whenever he was scared or just wanted that warmth. He hadn't had much time to get to know their mother as she died after giving birth to England, when Wales had still been young. Ireland... he had contact with him during that time, but not as much, as traveling between their homes was harder at the time. He'd just been more close to Scotland. Everyone seemed to be more close to Scotland. The man was truly the one keeping the family together, though Wales himself was trying his best as well.

His legs felt like lead, growing heavier with every step he took, and he wished to just be in the comfort of his own home again. Even though there wasn't much comfort there now. He'd be all alone anyway. "But not for too long," he whispered to himself, sighing. "Artie's coming home soon..." So he was. But how positive was that thought, really? His little brother would be home again in just two days, but for what reason? Because he was in no condition to still be on a submarine, that's why. He'd been unconscious for a day now, Wales heard, and he probably wasn't waking up anytime soon. After he'd passed out, blood hadn't stopped flowing from his throat for minute after minute. His lungs had been damaged pretty bad, and Wales could only guess it was from the several attacks in which the Germans were using poison gas. He shook his head slowly, sighing again. "Oh, _Lloegr_, I promise you you'll be fine again soon... This war won't take long at this rate."

At his own words, tears nearly welled up in his eyes. Ofcourse the war wouldn't be long, they'd all be dead soon! With trembling fingers he managed to open the door, trying his best to push all such negative thoughts away. He shouldn't think like that, he knew very well he shouldn't. As he hung up his coat and went to the living room, he made up his mind to just call Ireland. At least he'd have someone to talk to that way. But he hadn't even reached his phone when there was a knock on the door. Curious, he went over to it and opened it, revealing some random human. "W-Wales, right?" the man asked, looking through his bag. Obviously this was his first time adressing a nation, and that never failed to amuse Wales. The uncertainty in a human's voice at those moments could be either funny or just cute, or a combination of the two. Wales nodded, trying to seem like nothing was wrong. The man then handed him a letter, which Wales inspected curiously. "I was told to deliver this to you. Good luck with it, sir," the man said, then left. Wales closed the door, and at that moment, he noticed the military insignia on the envelope. His heart skipped a beat. Scotland had finally written again! He swiftly opened it, his eyes scanning the letter inside it. But the content wasn't quite what he'd expected, and his heart sank. By the time he was halfway through the letter, his vision was blurred with tears and his throat burned as the lump inside it threatened to choke him. "B-brother..."

* * *

As he opened his eyes, his vision was still black, so he blinked a few times to focus it again. Only after a minute or two did he manage to see straight again. His head was killing him though, and for a moment he just wanted to fall asleep again and not wake up before the war was over. A small, ragged cough made its way out of his throat, seeming to cut through already sore spots. Then when a voice spoke to him he realised he wasn't alone. "Sir, how do you feel?" It was the medic stationed on this submarine, surprising him a bit. What exactly had happened? He tried to remember, but it was all foggy inside his mind and he just couldn't figure it out. Giving up the effort, he just answered, "Could be better, but I'm fine." He pushed himself into a sitting position with his elbows, looking around. "How long was I...?" he asked the medic, trailing off mid-sentence. The answer was a swift one. "A day and a bit, sir. Now, there are a few things I need to inform you of." England just nodded, still trying to process his words. He's been unconscious for that long? Really, _what_ had happened? What came next was even more of a shock, though. "We're currently taking a little detour to get you back ashore."

England didn't even let the man finish before he protested, "There's no need for that. I'm well enough to remain here, where I'm _supposed _to be." Surely his men didn't think he was in too bad a condition to still serve in the army? Ridiculous! "Whoever gave you this order, I order you to ignore him," he went on as he swung his legs over the edge of the poor excuse of a bed, sitting straight completely now. "I am the highest ranking officer in the entire Navy, in case you've forgotten. No decisions are made without my say-so, and especially no decisions concerning _me_."

"Ignore His Majesty the King, sir?" the medic asked him with a hint of amusement in his voice. "I do not think that wise." England almost protested again before the words had sunk in. Oh. The _King_ had ordered this? He took a deep breath and sighed, annoyed that this meant he had no choice. He was going home, and most likely, participation in the war was out of the question for him from now on. It made him feel useless beyond belief, and he was ashamed at his own weakness. If only he'd surpressed that coughing (he only just remembered that) and the blood and his dizziness and any other sign things were going wrong, he'd still be able to serve his people in the way he wanted to. _Actively._ He had to fight for them, it was his duty.

As he kept sitting, not wanting to be reprimanded for _anything_ right now, especially not for something as simple as walking around, he felt again that ache in the lungs that had brought him in this state. Only now, he suddenly realised what was causing this discomfort. "The Hague conference," he muttered to himself softly, his eyes widening in shock. From the corner of his eyes, he saw the medic watch him curiously at this, but he paid no mind. "They're going against the Hague conference..."

"Hague conference?" the medic now asked, still with a curious look in his eyes. "What exactly do you mean, sir?" England shook his head slowly in disbelief and waited for a moment before answering. "The Germans. My lungs, I- I just figured out what it means. Or at least, I think I have. They've broken one of the rules set in the Hague Peace Conference in 1899. It stated that no lethal gasses were allowed to be used during wartime." The human's eyes widened in shock as well as he listened and realised what his nation was saying. "We know they've used teargas since the start of this war, and there have been occassions in which they used more deadly gasses as well... But I believe they've now started using it on a large scale." England sighed and shook his head again, wondering how the hell they would win this war without becoming the same monsters they were. Answer was, he just knew, they wouldn't. They'd be forced to use the same dirty tricks the enemy used if they wanted to win this war. "I hate war..." he muttered, placing his face in his hands, feeling completely defeated.

* * *

Ireland was writing some reports on how the training of the Irish Volunteers went, when he suddenly heard the doorbell ring. He quickly put his papers away and went to the door, keeping a straight face as to not show anything. No one could know what he was up to. As he opened the door, he was surprised to see Wales standing there, looking down and looking very tense. "Dylan," Ireland began carefully, placing a hand on his little brother's shoulder, feeling just how tense he really was. Beneath Ireland's fingertips, the nation's muscles felt like steel cables. "Dylan, what's wrong lad?" When there was no direct answer, just Wales pulling up his shoulders and gritting his teeth, his eyes -though Ireland could see they were closed- hidden behind strands of blond hair. Uncertain of what to do now, Ireland just grabbed his arm gently and pulled him inside. "Come, lad," he said softly to him. "Sit down an' tell me what's wrong, 'lright?"

He led him to his living room where they both sat down on the couch, and Wales finally seemed to relax a little. "I'm sorry for just showing up out of nowhere like this," he said, not looking Ireland in the eye. "I just... couldn't be alone anymore for a moment." Ireland put an arm around his shoulders and hugged him. "'s All right, lad. We're all having a hard time, what with the war 'n all. Now talk, 'kay? Talkin's always the best thing t'do." Wales nodded, though he kept silent for a while after it. Only after five minutes did he speak again, and all the while, Ireland waited, allowing his brother to start in his own time.

"It's just... The pressure of taking care of the entire UK -not counting you right now, as you take care of yourself- all by myself is getting a little too much," Wales confessed with a sigh. "It's heavy... And the war isn't going well for us, which only adds to the stress. Have you heard about Artie yet?" When Ireland shook his head, Wales explained, "Well, he'll be home in two days' time. You know how there's lethal gas used in the war, the stinging in the lungs it causes? In him, it has caused a little more than just stinging. Some of his crew reported him suffering from a lack of oxygen lately, getting dizzy and having tiny blackouts regularly, and only yesterday he coughed up blood -_a lot of it_\- and passed out. If this goes on too long it'll kill him." Suddenly, Wales got tense all over again, his lips trembling slightly as he stuck his hand in his pocket, pulling out a letter. "And on that matter..." Wales went on, trailing off. He didn't hand the letter to Ireland, and the older brother didn't attempt to take it anyway. It was all up to Wales now wether he'd read it or not. The younger nation nibbled on his bottom lip a bit before saying, "I've just had word about Allistair as well. He, too, will be home by the end of this week."

Ireland's eyes widened, their pale blue irises twinkling with joy. Finally, Scotland would be home again after a year at the front! "Dylan, why sound so depressed? He said he's comin' home, right? That's great news!" But Wales shook his head wordlessly. In his excitement, Ireland didn't notice the tears that were welling up in his little brother's eyes. He jumped up from the couch and began pacing through the room. "Ah, this calls fer a celebration!" he said, smiling brightly. "I'll get some whiskey -we still have yet to get one together, after all- and I guess I can make some stew fer us all, so we can have dinner like a family fer once. Y'know, the one with 'em carrots an' lamb an' parsley?" He shook his head, realising now he was getting too excited over this. Turning around to face Wales again, he asked once again, "Why're ye so down about it? Finally we'll all be together like a family again!"

"You don't understand!" Wales yelled suddenly, clenching his hands into tight fists and shutting his eyes, tears rolling down his face by now. "You stupid fool! O'course he ain't coming home just for the heck of it!" Ireland's excitement faded as he realised his conclusion had been too sudden indeed. There could be many reasons why Scotland would be leaving the front now, and many of them weren't good at all. "He's coming home for medical treatment, Cearul," Wales said, dropping a bomb that made Ireland's heart sink to the bottom of a deep pit. "They found him unconscious, bruised and cut all over and shot in the chest once, twice in the stomach. And of top of that, this all happened in an attack with Chlorine. He's the only survivor of his troops, and just barely hanging onto life himself. This is _not_ something to celebrate, Cearul!"

Ireland didn't feel or think anything at that moment. Nothing really came to him, he was that shocked. Only when Wales let out a soft wail, clasping a hand over his mouth to stop himself from crying but failing, did Ireland breathe again. He took his place beside his little brother again and held him in his arms comfortingly, allowing him to cry against his shoulder. It was about time Wales let all the emotions he'd bottled up out, and he was definitely doing so now. "We'll never be together like a family again, Cearul," he said between sobs, holding onto his older brother as if his life depended on it. "Not with the way things are goin' between you an' Arthur, not with Allistair on the brink o'death... We're breaking apart, and time just cannot be rewinded anymore at this point. It'll never be like it used to be again..."

Ireland wanted to reassure him so bad, tell him everything would be just fine again soon enough, but he couldn't. He just couldn't lie to his little brother, not now, not about something as clear as this. So he just bit his lip, trying to surpress his own emotions for the sake of Wales, though he couldn't fight the tears going down his jaws. "We'll find a way, laddie," he managed to choke out eventually. "We'll always find a way... you'll see..."

But Wales was right. They _were _breaking apart, and nothing could stop that anymore now.

* * *

**See what I mean with heartbreaking now? Well, wait for the next chapter then... *smirk* And sorry for potential heartbreak, crying, depression, anything of the sort. (Usually my stories aren't _that _sad, at least not in my opinion, but apparently this one is. If I'm exaggerating it a bit now, though, I'm sorry.)  
**

**Please leave a review and tell me what you think!**


	10. Chapter 10

**I just found out a little while ago, that if this were a songfic, the songs used would all be by Red. They have songs I can use as themesongs for every character here! The one for Wales, I can give already, seeing as there are no spoilers there... 'Take it all away', and especially these lyrics: "I'm breaking, I can't do this on my own. Can you hear me screaming out, or am I all alone...?"**

**And of course, thank you, That One Guest, for another great review!**

**And uh... warning for this chapter: sadness. Lots of sadness.**

* * *

As it was already late when he arrived, Wales stayed with Ireland that night. The following day they went to London together, where they arrived late as well and stayed at England's place. And the next morning, they had to be at the harbour early already to pick up the youngest of their brothers. England really didn't look good, but most of all, he really didn't look pleased. Ireland could understand that feeling, as he too had been going through it: he wanted to fight for his people in their rising and battle for independence so bad, but he hadn't had a real chance to do anything for a long time. England would experience that same feeling of uselessness now, and Ireland almost felt bad for him. Almost.

They were on their way home now, Ireland driving with Wales beside him, England on the backseat of the car. The youngest nation's expression showed nothing but frustration, and Wales' questions did nothing to help. "So how're you feeling now, Arthur?" he asked, looking over his shoulder at his brother, who sighed. "Just fine, thank you." Ireland barked out a short laugh at his answer, and shook his head while saying, "Lad, I can tell ye have a fever just _lookin_' at ye, an' yer here fer a good reason. Or didn't ye realise yer breathing squeaks a lil'? Yer lungs are in no condition, yer throat is obviously ruined -I can tell by yer voice, 'tis raspy- an' yer mood... By God, I've never seen one in such a terrible condition!" The last part was a joke purely intended to piss off his little brother, and it worked splendidly. England huffed in anger -again with that squeaking noise Ireland had mentioned- and gritted his teeth. "Just shut up, will you?" he muttered. "And honestly, where has your English gone? The language you're speaking right now resembles it just the slightest, but..."

"Left it at me home," Ireland replied with a smirk. "I'll go pick it up sometime later, after we've picked up Allistair th'day after t'morrow." In the mirror, he could see England suddenly looking at him with narrowed eyes. "Allistair? Why is he coming home a-" Suddenly it dawned on him, and his expression changed to one of complete horror as he breathed, "H-how bad is it...?" Wales sighed and shook his head slowly, then looked over his shoulder at England again. "He's currently fighting to even stay alive," he told him, then looked at Ireland and added, "which is why I think we won't be _picking him up_ like we did Arthur, just visiting him in hospital until he's recovered enough. If he ever will." It was silent for a moment before he asked his older brother, "Do you think you can stay away from Dublin for so long?"

His question struck Ireland quite hard. Damn, he hadn't even though about that. He'd missed a training session with the Volunteers the day before, he knew that already. But he wasn't going to leave until Scotland was awake again at the very least. He would just have to call Clarke and tell him he wouldn't be available for anything for a little while. And the mand would just have to understand, and if he didn't, that was his goddamn problem, not Ireland's. He had a personal life as well, and that was being turned upside down right now. And if anyone dared to tell him he had duties to fulfill, well, just let them hear two of their younger brothers are sick and injured, one of them fatally. Let's see what they'd have to say then. Ireland's only duty now was to take care of all three of his younger brothers.

* * *

Around midday two days later, the three of them were in the hospital where Scotland had just been brought in and examined, and they were now questioning the doctor about his condition. "Most importantly," Ireland eventually said, "will he live?" The man took a deep breath and nodded. "Fortunately, he will. Being a nation, his wounds have healed pretty nicely over the past few days." England, Wales and Ireland all sighed in relief, tiny smiles showing up on their faces for the first time in days. "However," the doctor went on, catching their attention again. "He is still nowhere near healed and he will have to remain here for at least another day. After that, he can come home with the three of you, but make sure he doesn't walk around too much and gets plenty of rest. Check his wounds frequently to see if they're infected, and if they are, I'm sure you know what to do. If it gets too bad, return him here." Wales nodded, agreeing to this. "Ofcourse. Anything to make him all right again."

The human sighed for a moment. "One more thing, though. Chlorine damages the lungs, airways, throat and inside of the mouth, but other things as well." Ireland's heart skipped a beat as he heard these words, and he was afraid of what was going to be said next. But he still just listened. "And considering he wasn't wearing a mask by the time the attack started, I'm afraid I have to tell you... his eyes will be damaged too." Ireland heard England gasp softly and saw him looking down at those words, and he himself just breathed, "Y-you mean his sight will be...?"

The doctor shook his head. "I'm afraid not. It will not just be bad, sir, it will be nonexistent." A large crevice seemed to open up beneath Ireland's feet at that moment, and he felt as if he was falling into the darkness and just kept on falling. His dearest little brother would be... blind? His stomach twisted and he felt a sudden nausea coming up, but he surpressed it as much as he could. After a moment of shocked silence, Wales softly asked, "Will it be permanent?" The doctor just shook his head again and confessed, "There's no telling at this point. Humans who have survived this were almost all blind as well, only some weren't -the lucky ones. But seeing as you're nations, I cannot say for sure if he's even blind -though I suspect he is- and wether it will only be temporary or permanent, we'll just have to wait and see. I'm sorry."

After that, the three brothers were allowed to see him, and so they did without a second of hesitation. If they weren't shattered already, they were the moment they saw him lying there: despite the muscle he'd gained over the months in battle, he looked so frail with his upper body bared but almost completely wrapped in bandages. The only things left open were his fingers, neck and face, though he had a cut on his cheek that was bandaged as well. His lips were dry and cracked, blistered as well. His firey red hair stood out even more against his pale skin. His chest rose and fell slowly, but rythmic, and that at least was reassuring.

"I should have gone in his place," came England's voice, rather sudden, whispering. Both Wales and Ireland looked at him in shock. The youngest nation was looking at his older brother with glassy emerald eyes, guilt evident in them. "I knew I should have been the one at the front... then this wouldn't have happened..." Wales grabbed his hand quickly and went to stand in front of him, forcing England to look at him. "Do _not _blame yourself, Arthur!" he said, tears welling up in his mossy green eyes. "Don't you dare! None of this is your fault, you hear me?" England opened his mouth for a moment, but no sound came out. Then he just bit his lip and only after half a minute did he nod. "Good," Wales said, having a hard time keeping his voice steady. Ireland was still impressed, though: he _couldn't_ even speak at the moment. "Now let's just sit down and... be with him. It's all we can do for him now."

All three of them just grabbed a chair for themselves and sat down beside Scotland's bed, Wales and England on his left, Ireland on his right. And so they sat in silence, neither of them even dared to breathe properly, afraid that they wouldn't hear if Scotland's breathing suddenly stopped, even though they knew for sure he would survive the ordeal. After a while, Ireland found his voice back. "What date is it, actually?" Wales smiled sadly and didn't take his eyes off Scotland. "August 7." Ireland sighed, the same smile appearing on his face, and placed his hand on that of his injured brother. "It's been a full year then," he said softly to him. "Welcome back, Al."

* * *

They were at the hospital the following day again as well. It depended completely on Scotland waking up that day or not wether or not he was coming home with them. He did seem to be waking up for an hour already, twitching from time to time and his expression changing with the minute. He seemed to be having a nightmare, though that wasn't too surprising after everything he'd gone through. The three other nations were softly talking to eachother as they sat there, waiting for something to happen. Eventually, Scotland woke up indeed, though he didn't open his eyes yet. "Cear'l?" he rasped softly after hearing his older brother's voice. "Wot're ye doin' 'ere?" Ireland's heart nearly fluttered out of his chest as he leaned forward and gently grabbed Scotland's hand. "I'm visiting ye, o'course." Scotland hummed for a moment. "'M tired... can't ye come later?"

Ireland smiled and shook his head. "Nah, I'm here now, ain't I? Dylan an' Arthur are here too." Scotland's lips moved as if he was saying something, but this time, no sound came over them. England leaned in closer as well and placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "How are you feeling, Allistair?" he asked, his eyes shining but glassy again. The half-awake nation hummed again, then answered. "Tired... talkin' hurts... Why're y'all here?" Now it was Wales' turn to speak. "We were worried about you, that's why. Do you remember anything about the past few days?" Slowly, Scotland shook his head, his eyes still closed, much to the brothers' relief. At least they had a chance to tell him what happened before he realised he... Ireland didn't even want to _think_ the word. "You were in an attack," Wales explained, swallowing the lump that was forming in his throat, barely managing to keep his voice steady. "And you got hurt real bad. There was poison gas, and... well, you're in a hospital in London now." Scotland showed no clear reaction to his, just another hum. "Also..." Wales went on, losing the steadiness of his voice now. "There's something else... it's not certain yet, but it will be in a moment... can you open your eyes for a moment...?"

As Scotland's eyelids began to twitch in his effort to open his eyes, Ireland's breathing stopped for a moment. He was scared, so scared for his little brother. And once his eyes were open, the shock didn't fade and nausea took over. Scotland's eyes were glazed over with some sort of milky fog, his blue eyes dull and greyish. The pupil was completely gone. The nation blinked once, twice, then mumbled, "Can't see...?" Wales swiftly got a hold of his older brother's free hand, and nodded. "I-I was afraid this would be the case... Allistair, I-I'm so s-sorry, you... you're blind." Scotland's eyes widened in shock, but quickly relaxed again. "I see... Because of the gas?" It was clear now this last piece of news had jolted him awake completely, as he was fully focused on what his brothers were saying and could finally reply in full sentences again. England confirmed this, to which Scotland narrowed his blind eyes slightly and noticed, "Ye don't sound too good, lad." He lifted his left arm, the side where England sat, which Wales then let go off, and held it out to where he thought his little brother sat. England understood what he wanted to do, grabbed his hand gently and placed it against his own chest, breathing deeply. Scotland felt slight bubbling in the younger nation's lungs as he breathed and heard soft squeaking and rasping, and knew instantly this was an indirect effect of the poison gas.

"Ye should get a doctor t'look at that, Artie," he said sternly, moving his hand up, tracing England's neck and jawline, placing his hand over one side of his face. He didn't look pleased with what he felt. "An' that fever too, lad. Yer sick... take care o'yerself, aye?" England placed both his hands over Scotland's, gritting his teeth. Ireland could see tears quickly welling up in his visible eye, which Scotland must have felt beneath his fingers, as his hand covered the other one. "Oi, Artie, lad," Scotland said softly, a smile spreading on his face. "Don't ye cry now, y'hear me? 'S not necessary. Promise me ye won't be cryin' over me now." At this, England smiled as well, though a sob also escaped his lips. "O-only if you promise me you'll be fine," he replied, laughing for a second. The answer was a quick and determined one. "I will, brother. I will." Taking a deep breath, England nodded and let go of Scotland's hand again. The older brother moved his hand away from the younger one's face, but instead placed it behind his neck and softly pulled him closer. England got the message in an instant and gently hugged his brother, avoiding any injured body part, hiding his face in the crook of Scotland's neck. He did his best, but he couldn't fight every sob that tried to escape.

Looking at this, Ireland could feel warm tears in his own eyes as well, and saw them also rolling down Wales' face, who was smiling at his two brothers, his hand now on Scotland's leg for the sake of keeping contact with him. Scotland had closed his eyes again, giving him a fairly normal appearance aside from the many bandages, and looked completely at peace like that. Looking at the youngest of the family, though, Ireland could almost picture him as the young child he'd been the first time Ireland had seen him after his birth. Only difference was, now, he got the chance to do the one thing he could never do in his early childhood: the simple act of hugging someone when needing that warmth and comfort. Moments like these always stung to Ireland, and he felt a pang of guilt as he realised this. He himself had grown up with his mother, the same went for Scotland. Wales had Scotland in his first years. England had no one, and that had been entirely their fault, as they had completely ignored the fact they had a little brother to take care of in their grief for their mother.

Some minutes went by like that, and at some point, England had moved away and it was Wales' turn to get a good hug from the brother he'd missed so much. And then, when he let go as well, Scotland tilted his face in Ireland's direction, trying to look at him despite not seeing him. "When I'm free to go home again," he began, at which Ireland smiled and said "which is today". Scotland smiled as well and went on, "Well then... Since Artie is sick and Wales must be busy... Can I come home with you, Cearul? I don't want to be a bother to our wee brothers." Ireland grabbed his hand again and took a deep breath. "I'd like nothin' more than to take ye home with me, brother. Yer always welcome."

* * *

**Scotland's fate was sealed the moment I read the effects of chlorine... sorry 'bout that. It's a terrible weapon, that gas, and I'm still wondering how people could use it back then. I mean, how the hell could they? (And yes, the British and the French used gas as well eventually, not just the Germans)**

**And poor Arthur... I felt bad writing this, but I just had to, otherwise this fic will portray him mostly as some heartless monster, which he is not. He can feel guilty about things, as he did here, and he really does care about his brothers. Except Ireland, but that's mutual hate between those two. (Though Ireland's older-brother instincts can kick in now and then, mind you)**

**Anyway, sorry for doing this to Allistair, and thank you very much for reading! I hope you liked it, and please leave a review! I love hearing/reading what my readers think.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Well, it seems I can finally write long chapters again. Next one might take until the end of this week, though, seeing as I have tests in school this week.**

**That One Guest: sorry for making you cry... But thanks a lot for the review! *Sniff* Unfortunately, staying healthy is bit hard when you have a cold and a fever, but ah well... Let's hope we both recover soon, right? XD (And no, England doesn't hate Ireland _completely_, that will all be explained later on)**

**A part of Scotland's song (Hold Me Now by Red): "Waking up and letting go to the sound of angels. Am I alive or just a ghost, haunted by my sorrows? Hope is slipping through my hands, gravity is taking hold. Said 'I'm not afraid, I am brave enough. I will not give up until I see the sun'"**

**Well, hope you enjoy the next chapter (or whatever... 'tis sad after all, but you knew that already if you've come this far)**

**I do not own Hetalia.**

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After spending the night in London, Ireland and Scotland went home. They were already in Ireland now, said nation behind the steeringwheel of his car, Scotland half asleep in the passenger's seat. Ireland was driving very carefully, avoiding any bumpy roads, and if he _had _to drive over one, he'd go slower for the sake of his injured little brother. The doctor had been right about the wounds healing quickly, but that didn't mean he wasn't still in pain. Or that he could walk for more than two steps by himself, for that matter. But at least physically, he was making a quick recovery. "Say, Cearul," the Scotsman eventually mumbled, blinking his eyes open. Ireland got one glance at them and looked away instantly. He didn't like to admit it, but they looked rather scary as they were now. "Shouldn't we be in Dublin by now?"

Ireland chuckled for a moment. "We're already past Dublin, brother," he said, smiling. Scotland blinked in surprise. "Then where are we goin' to?" Ireland hummed a bit as he neared crossroads, wondering which of the directions he could best pick right now, seeing as both would lead him to his destination eventually. "Well, I thought ye might wanna recover in a quieter place than that, so I'm takin' ye to me place in Ballinhassig. Remember that?" As he turned right, Scotland nodded. "Aye, I think so. Wee cottage, right?" Ireland nodded, only then remembering he'd have to speak to confirm this to his brother, which he then did. He'd taken Scotland there once or twice before, though it had been a while since either of them had even been there. Ballinhassig was the definition of quiet little town, just a few kilometers away from Cork city. It was the perfect place to take Scotland now, that was for sure.

Roughly fourty minutes later, they arrived, and after he'd parked his car in front of his house he got out, immediately being greeted by his neighbour. "Ah, Cearul! Long time no see, my friend!" Friend was indeed the right word here. Ireland had known some families here for generations, and this was one of them. He'd known the man since the human was a tiny newborn, and he was now fifty-three. "Hello, Sean," Ireland greeted him with a smile. "I know, 's been a while, hasn't it? I've been busy lately..." As Sean walked up to him, Ireland gestured to the car, where Scotland still sat inside. "Good that I see you know, y'know. Could ye help me with me brother, Allistair? 'M sure you remember him."

Sean thought for a moment, then remembered, "Oh, Allistair! 'E's Scotland, right? Sure I can help. What's wrong with the lad, then?" Ireland told him a quick version of the story, at which the human paled and his eyes widened. After Ireland had finished, Sean shook his head and sighed. "Poor man... Must be hard, goin' through all that and then ending up... y'know." Ireland nodded, then walked over to the passenger's side of his car, opening the door for Scotland. "Sorry it took me a little, brother," the Irishman apologised for his delay, carefully wrapping an arm around Scotland's waist to help him to his feet. "Got a friend o'mine to help us get ye inside." Scotland just nodded, mumbled it was okay, then flinched as Ireland's fingers brushed against a rather deep, only half-healed cut. He was still covered in bandages, though now he was at least wearing a simple, loose button-up shirt and simple trousers. The moment there was space enough to do so, Sean went to stand on the nation's other side and also wrapped an arm around him, and like that, the three men walked -or rather, hobbled- to the cottage. Once inside, they went straight to the living room, where the two gently placed Scotland on the couch. The red-haired man sighed as he sat down, grateful not to have to stand any longer as his knees had been about to give out. "Thanks, both of you," he mumbled, closing looking up, hoping he was looking at one of them. Ireland saw Sean flinch as he saw the nations foggy eyes, though much to Ireland's relief he managed to not make a sound. Instead the man just smiled and said, "Anytime, lad. I'm sure ye dun'remember me, but I sure remember meetin' ye! Good t'see ye again, Allistair." With a sigh, he added, "And I hope you'll have a quick recovery, mate. But knowin' Cearul, yer family is a strong one. I'm sure ye'll get through this just fine."

Scotland began to smile at his words, a genuine smile for once. Ireland placed his hand on the man's shoulder and thanked him too. But Sean just shook his head. "It's not like ye've never done anythin' fer my family as well, Cearul. Anytime. I'll be off now, but if ye need help with anythin', just ask." Then the man went away, back to his own home. Ireland sat down beside Scotland now, placing his hand on his arm. The man hadn't said it, but Ireland knew how much he wanted physical contact with people now that he couldn't see them. Probably because it gave him some sense of _seeing_ them despite the darkness, or else a confirmation of their presence. "How're ye feeling now, then, Al?" Ireland asked his brother, as the Scotsman was looking rather pale, and he was breathing deep and slow. Scotland shook his head slowly, sighing. "In all honesty," he said, closing his eyes again. "Not so good. Rather sick actually." Ireland let his shoulders hang, feeling bad for him. He sighed as he watched a few seconds longer, then asked softly, "Do I have to get you a bucket...?" Scotland took a deep breath, exhaled slowly then inhaled again before nodding slowly. Ireland patted him on the back and then quickly went to get one, handing it to him, grabbing both his hands and tracing them around the edges of it to give him an idea of where it was exactly. Scotland muttered a thanks, then held on to the bucket tightly, not wanting to let go anytime soon.

"Has this just started, or...?" Ireland asked him, placing his hand on his brother's shoulder, who shook his head. "N-nah, somewhere on the ferry or some'in... a while." Ireland was just about to ask why he hadn't said anything, but didn't get the chance as his little brother decided to use the bucket now. Ireland just held his hand on his shoulder and sat beside him in silence, waiting for it to be over. He could feel Scotland's muscles tighten beneath his fingers, knowing they were sore beforehand, and could almost feel the pain it caused himself. Once he was done, Scotland gasped for breath and muttered, "I hate not seein' where yer goin'..." At this, Ireland bit his lip, grateful that at least Scotland also couldn't see the tears welling up in his brother's eyes. "Ye completely finished now?" he asked softly, to which Scotland hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Well, I'll go wash that bucket then... And I'll get ye some water. Be right back."

When he got back with a glass of water as he had promised, Scotland sat slumped back on the couch, his eyes still closed, his breathing slow and steady. As he set the glass down, careful not to wake him up, he smiled. At least his dear little brother was getting some rest now, which he really needed. Suddenly, Ireland got an idea and went through the cupboard on the other side of the room until he found what he'd been looking for. Carefully, he unfolded the blanket and placed it over his sleeping brother. "Sleep well, Al," he said softly, hoping Scotland really _would _sleep well for a change. The dark circles under his eyes told Ireland he hadn't done so in months at the very least. After that, Ireland went to his phone and dialled a number he knew by heart by now. "Clarke speaking," the man on the other end of the line said. "Who's this?"

"Tom, it's me, Cearul," Ireland said, speaking softly. If Scotland woke up _now..._ he'd be in trouble. "Ah, Cearul," Tom Clarke answered. "Ye back from London, then? Good, training needs t'start again soon." Ireland sighed and shook his head. "Yes, about that," he began, knowing the old man wouldn't like what he had to say. "I have to take care of Allistair for a while -I've told you what's wrong with 'im, Tom, and I'm _not_ repeatin' it!- so unless ye can move training sessions to Ballinhassig -_and wait at least a week!_\- I'm afraid I can't help ye for a while." The man kept interrupting him as he spoke, and Ireland was getting more than just a bit annoyed. "No, Tom, my first priority now is takin' care of me brother! O'course he ain't _England_, Allistair is _Scotland!_ Yeah, England's human name is Arthur, not Allistair. No, that's Wales. By God, does it even matter? I'm not available for a little while, that's all I have t'say. I'm sorry, but I have ta go now." He was glad when he could put down the phone again and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he felt a headache coming up. He was fighting for a good cause, the greatest cause he'd ever fought for, he knew. But _why_, for Heaven's sake, could the people organising it all be so _annoying?_ "Humans will never understand us..." he muttered, grabbing a book from a shelve and sitting down beside Scotland again.

* * *

"_Angleterre_!" called a familiar voice, and England turned around to see France running over to him. He was wearing that ridiculous tunic again... It seriously reminded England of a dress, but he knew better now than to say this out loud in the Frenchman's presence. The teen halted in front of his younger friend, grinning at him. Well, perhaps 'friend' wasn't quite the right term to use between the two. After all, they fought a lot, though they could also enjoy eachother's company fromt time to time. But now, it would all change, England knew. The child huffed and turned his back on the teenager. "You should go," he told him, not looking over his shoulder. "Since I became Protestant some time ago, the King and priests don't want me talking to you anymore, since you're still Catholic... They say you're bad influence. So go, please." He was about to walk away when France grabbed his arm, making him turn around and face him again. The older nation just smirked and said, "Aw, but _Angleterre_, you don't have to listen to them! You're still _un enfant_, you have the age where you're allowed to break rules, you know?" His dark blue eyes began twinkling mischievously as he added, "And besides, I had a very important thing to tell you!" With some difficulty, England, who now had the physical age of seven or eight years old, whereas France was roughly fourteen, managed to free himself and protested, "No! They told me not to talk to you, so I won't. Now go." This time, France didn't even give him the chance to turn around before grabbing him again. "They only spoke of _parler, oui?_ Lucky, this message I have for you can easily be gotten across without words..."

Suddenly, England was hauled up by the collar of his shirt, France's lips smashing into his. He was frozen with shock, closing his eyes, afraid. He could feel France prying his mouth open with his own, then biting his bottom lip so hard, he tasted blood. It lasted seconds but felt like minutes, and the child couldn't breathe. Then when he was finally released again, he was dropped onto the ground like a doll. Shaking in fear, he looked up at the nation he had considered at least_ some _sort of friend for years, who was smirking at him, blood on his lips. England's blood. He licked it away, seemingly enjoying the taste, before he kneeled down in front of the kid and asked innocently, "_Comprends?_" Without waiting for an answer, knowing it wouldn't come, he got up and walked away casually, calling over his shoulder, "Well then, _au revoir, Angleterre!_" England just scrambled backwards against the bark of a tree, pressing a hand against his bleeding lip. France had been right about one thing: he _did_ get the message across pretty well. England knew exactly what this had meant, and he could almost hear the teen say it himself. _You're mine now, comprends? Don't try to fight it, you won't win. You're mine._ "I don't want to be..." he whispered, biting back tears. "I don't want to be..."

"Be what, Arthur?" Suddenly, England opened his eyes, seeing then that he was in a dark room. His own bedroom in London, he knew instantly. Thank God, that had been a dream... "Arthur?" When the voice that had jolted him awake spoke to him again, he looked to the side and saw Wales sitting beside him, holding his hand on England's forehead. "What're you...?" he mumbled, still half-asleep. Wales sighed, pulling his hand back. "I was working late for today," he explained. "And thought I'd check up on you, just to see if there had been any change in your fever yet, before I went to bed myself. But you seemed to be having a nightmare, mumbling things, so..."

England nodded slowly, closing his eyes again for a moment. "I did... seem t'be having those 'lot lately..." For a moment, Wales smirked. England always complained about Ireland and Scotland and how they couldn't speak a word proper English, but in his half-asleep state, his own was no better. But the smirk soon faded again and he asked, "A lot? How often?" England just shrugged and shifted a little before answering, "Dunno... 'vry night or some'in..." _Every night. _Wales sighed again, feeling pity well up. It must be because of his fever, he knew, but for his younger brother to have nightmares _this _vivid _every night..._ he really felt bad for him. "Care to tell me what it was about?" he asked, but England just shook his head. The older of the two yawned and got up. "Well, I'll be off, then. Goodnight, Artie." England just hummed a slightly distorted 'goodnight' as well, falling asleep again almost immediately.

Or seemed to, at least. The moment the door closed, he opened his eyes and sighed. Tell Wales about one of the most embarassing moments in his youth? Never. France himself hadn't even told anyone about that time, England most definitely wouldn't. No one had to know about how weak he'd been, not even able to protect himself from that. He was now one of the most powerful nations on Earth, and he'd fight to keep that position. He would _never _be that weak again. Never.

He swung his legs over the edge of his bed and got out of it quietly, hoping not to draw Wales' attention anymore. Then again, he wasn't a child anymore and Wales knew that very well. Try to baby England (when he's fully conscious at least) and you'll regret it. The nation then went downstairs, drank some water and then went to his basement. He didn't know why, he just felt like he needed to look at some old things he'd kept with him over the centuries. He smiled as his eyes fell on a rather large piece of wood with a name carved into it: the old 'nameplate' of his ship back in the pirating years. _The Demon_. A short, simple and _very_ fitting name. What a demon he'd been back then, destroying whole fleets, plundering many ships and downright _slaying _the Spanish Armada. The name Captain Arthur had been almost as well-known and feared as Blackbeard back in the years, his ship as legendary as _the Flying Dutchman_, though his government had made a good effort of hiding that part of his history as time passed. He looked through his stuff a bit longer, admiring the craftsmanship of his old swords (he still thought it was a shame people didn't use swords anymore) before he shook his head. "What am I even doing here?" he muttered under his breath, going up the narrow stairs out of his basement again. But as he entered the darkness of his living room, he sighed and went back to his bedroom as fast as he could. The darkness, suddenly, was a terrifying thing, and he closed his eyes the moment he was back in his bed. Darkness when your eyes were closed, at the very least, was normal. But darkness all around you, even with your eyes wide open? It was a terrifying thing indeed. It was and would always be terrifying now that he knew his brother might be stuck in it forever and might never open his eyes to the light of day anymore. And then he remembered what he'd been doing in his basement.

Seeking distraction from the utter despair that had been torturing him for days now.

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**No, I do not think of France as the rapist some people portray him as, no, I do not want to portray him as such. But like so many nations, he was a sick and twisted little man in his early centuries.**

**As for England's ship... There is my lack of creativity in making up names XD Oh well...**

**Hope you liked this chapter, and please leave a review on your way out!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Oh well, it didn't take too long anyway XD**

**Thanks to theworldofhetalia for the follow, and ofcourse, That One Guest for another review! I agree that England should talk about things that are bothering him, especially things like _that_. But he's stubborn.**

**I do not own Hetalia.**

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One afternoon about two weeks after both Scotland and England had returned home from the war, when Ireland found himself in a pub. It was quiet, which it always was here, and he loved that. He ordered two whiskey with a grin, but before he paid he asked, "How much more if I take the glasses with me?" The barman looked at him with questioning eyes and asked him why he would in the first place. For some strange reason, Ireland could only smile as he explained, "Well, these 'ere are a year overdue between me an' me lil' brother, y'see. We did'na get the chance t'get a drink together last year as he went to the Front. "E's home now because he's gotten hurt real bad, but I'd like to have a drink with him like we promised eachother."

The barman smiled wide at the story. "That's just what I would do. Ye dun'ave to pay me more for it, I've got tons of 'em here anyway." He then began to laugh and added, "And seriously, if I'd have to charge everyone here fer breakin' a glass or some'in when they get real drunk, I'd be rich by now!" Ireland just thanked him and then went on his way home with two glasses of whiskey in his hands. The temptation was great, but the temptation to bring them home and surprise Scotland was far greater. He had a little trouble opening the front door, but he managed, and immediately called out to his younger brother. "Allistair, I'm back! And remember that promise we made eachother last year?" He didn't need to say anymore than that, or rather, he was too shocked to do so. Scotland, his hands trailing on the walls beside him, was already making his way into the small hallway, grinning. "Heard ye a minute ago," he said, the grin grwoing wider. "If ye want t'surprise me, ye better not swear so loud in front o'the door, idiot." He held one arm out to Ireland, and when his fingers brushed against his brother's arm, he moved past him and closed the front door for him, as he had indeed heard Ireland swearing about 'That goddamned door that would'na open!'. Ireland was impressed. "Ye just keep gettin' better everyday, don't ye?"

As he went to the living room, he didn't even hold out one arm for Scotland to follow him by touch: he had to learn to navigate on his own, and he was doing a damn good job already. Hearing footsteps, the blind nation knew his brother was walking away again and followed the sound, one hand held out in front of him to make sure he didn't bump into anything. He could navigate the house quite well by now, though he had a hard time finding specific objects. All but one, he'd found out today. "By the way, Cearul, while ye were out, someone called fer ya. A friend o'yours, he said. Pearse. He'll be coming o'er tomorrow, had some'in to talk to ye about," Scotland informed his brother, who just shook his head in disbelief and pride mixed together. "Ye even found the phone, did ye now? Ye really _are _gettin' better each day!"

"I have more experience with each passin' day, after all," Scotland replied casually, though Ireland could see the smile on his face from the corner of his eye. His little brother was almost as proud of his achievements as he was. But a moment later he shrugged and added, "An' about the phone, well... Anyone could find it with their eyes closed when it rings like bloody hell five minutes straight. Must'a been real important what the man has ta tell ye." Suddenly Ireland remembered the name Scotland had mentioned, and his heart sank. Pearse was coming here? What was the man thinking, when he and Clarke and the others knew very well Scotland was still here! But then again, Ireland could just go to another room with the human and tell Scotland not to come in or try to listen as it was private... No. Too suspicious. His good mood almost fading away because of this piece of news, Ireland went to stand in the middle of the room, smiling just for the sake of keeping his mood on the brighter side, waiting for Scotland to notice this and halt as well, which he did in just two or three seconds. "But, as I was saying, I thought 'twas time we fulfilled our promise to eachother, right?" Scotland just raised an eyebrow questioningly, then smiled and shook his head a second later. "I knew that scent was whiskey! Ye dun forget anythin' that has to do with alcohol, do ye?" Ireland laughed and handed Scotland his glass, agreeing, "Absolutely not! Alcohol is too important to forget!"

Scotland held up his glass already, and Ireland tapped his own against it, his smile back and genuine again now. "Way overdue, this one. Cheers, brother!"

* * *

When England came downstairs the following morning, he smelled Wales had already made breakfast. "Goodmorning, Dylan," he greeted him, slightly annoyed that his brother had made _his_ breakfast too, but not showing any of that annoyance. He liked having Wales over, that wasn't the problem at all. At least he wasn't alone anymore, and he was grateful for that. But he liked having a _brother_ over, not some self-proclaimed servant. Wales just smiled at him as he walked into the kitchen, and he smiled back. "Goodmorning, Arthur! How're you feeling now? You look a little less pale at least." England sat down, thanked him for breakfast quickly (avoiding an edge to his voice to the best of his abilities) then said, "Rather good, actually, compared to what the past few weeks have been like." Wales leaned over the table, placing a hand on England's forehead, receiving a glare in return. "Your fever's almost gone," he noticed with a wide smile, sitting back down. He just kept staring at England with that ridiculous smile, while his younger brother was just trying to eat normally as he was hungry. He hadn't exactly eaten anything since a late breakfast the day before, but Wales didn't know that. Didn't have to know it, either. England just hadn't been in the mood, that was all there was to it. But after swallowing the second bite, that smiling stare seemed to burn through him, and he looked up with a sigh. "And you know why...?" he asked, knowing it must be something along those lines Wales wanted to tell him so bad.

The older brother just nodded. "Got some _perfect_ news this morning," he said, holding up a letter with a grin. "We're getting funds from _America_ for this war!" England almost choked on his food as he heard this, and he coughed to get it out of his throat again before properly swallowing it. "F-from America?" he repeated, almost whining. Now that was one thing he didn't want. Wales nodded, excited over it, unlike his younger brother. "Yep! And, Arthur, I know you still don't like him because of the Revolution, but come _on._ That was over a century ago, and the lad's _rich._ We need his help."

"If he fights with us, I will be somewhat okay with it," England muttered in response. "I don't need his bloody money." Wales shook his head and sighed, getting more than a little annoyed with his brother. "Arthur, get over it. You _do _need his money. I mean, look at what it has done for your health already!" England just snorted and whispered, "That's a things called 'coincidence', brother dear", which Wales wasn't too happy about. "You know what?" he muttered in response to his little brother, looking away from him. "Forget it. If you cannot be happy, then neither will I. I won't even try anymore! Suddenly, I don't even have to wonder anymore how a _gentleman _like you could've ever been a bloody pirate, your constant bad mood makes it obvious enough." Englan just huffed and continued eating his breakfast in silence. He might be feeling better physically, but emotionally, he still wasn't quite ready to accept help of any sort. Especially not if it was America's help. It wasn't long after that he just got up and out of the house without so much as a word.

* * *

It was almost noon when Pearse arrived, which was earlier than Ireland had anticipated. Almost reluctantly, he welcomed the man into his house. "I thought I told you people that-" Pearse interrupted him almost immediately. "You did," he said, not looking Ireland in the eye as he did, "but you also said to wait a few weeks, which we did, and now we're here. Look, Cearul, this is a very important matter, and however much I agree with you taking care of your brother while he's in this condition, you cannot forget your duties to your people as you do so." Ireland bit back a sharp retort: Pearse was right after all. He could leave Scotland alone or a few hours a day now, he wasn't exactly too injured to take care of himself anymore and was finding his way around the house despite being blind quite well. He just didn't _want _to leave him for more than an hour straight if he didn't need to. Pearse must've noticed the look in his eyes as he thought about this, because he placed a hand on the nation's shoulder and added softly, "Look, I have a younger brother, too, so I know what it feels like, the sense of responsibility towards siblings. But you cannot watch him forever, he's... how many centuries old? I understand that you want to be there for him now that he's blind, and I wouldn't do it any differently, but don't forget your work for the Brotherhood, and..." He trailed off, sighing and a smile appearing on his face as he finished. "_At least _answer the phone when we call."

Ireland nodded, then led him to the living room, where Scotland sat at the small round table, playing around with a piece of paper. He seemed to be trying to fold it into some certain shape, but doing so with only touch wasn't quite as easy as it might seem. As he heard his brother and the human visitor enter the room, he just raised a hand and greeted them both, then put his handiwork (Ireland now saw it resembled a tiny -though crooked- pyramid, and was impressed he had managed at least _that _much without looking) down and got to his feet. He carefully made his way around the table and towards the nation and human, and halted roughly two feet in front of Pearse, holding out his hand to him. Pearse, too, seemed to be impressed with how well he was adjusting to being blind, and shook his hand, introducing himself. "You're Allistair, right? I believe we've spoken yesterday, on the phone. The name's Patrick Pearse, nice to meet you." Scotland introduced himself as well before (more or less) turning to Ireland, asking, "D'ye need me to go or anythin', private conversation, or...?" But Ireland shook his head. "No, ye can stay here, I'm sure. If we really need privacy, we'll go to my study, or else we'll speak in Irish-" Scotland grimaced and muttered, "Ugh, bloody annoying language ye have."

"-Thank ye, Al," the Irishman sighed, wondering if he should take that as an insult or not. "Anyway, the point is, ye can stay here an'... fold paper or some'in... as long as ye like." Scotland nodded, mumbling something inaudible before he went back to the table. As he watched his brother sit down again with a sigh, Ireland made a mental note that he had to think of something for Scotland to do from now on. Most likely, the biggest problem he had because of not being able to see was boredom. What could one possibly do without their eyes, after all?

At Pearse's request, they went to Ireland's study anyway, closed and locked the door, then began to talk. "We need you to begin training with the Volunteers again as soon as possible," Pearse began, immediately getting to the point. "There is urgency behind it, and we really need all the men we can get." When Ireland inquired about the urgency, the man just replied that the rising was planned to occur early in the next year. "That's... soon," the nation replied, still not wrapping his head around it entirely. "Very soon. Do ye have any idea which month it'll be?" Pearse shook his head, but did tell him it was to happen on a day the English wouldn't soon forget. A national holiday, for example, was a great choice, to which Ireland agreed. The nation himself had some news to share as well, though he was very careful about it, knowing the humans might have a hard time understanding, let alone accepting it.

"I will continue me work fer the Brotherhood with pleasure," he began, looking away for a moment. "But I am afraid I can't participate in the rising itself." At this, Pearse's eyes widened slightly, and Ireland almost flinched. "Y'see, it'll be in Dublin, and Dublin is my capital... my heart. There's no doubt there'll be fightin' an'..." He sighed, the took a deep breath before continuing, "I take it yer not familiar with how the body of a nation works, right?" When Pearse nodded slowly, a curious look in his eyes, Ireland explained, "We feel it when there's a major battle or anythin' o'the sort. It hurts like bloody hell, an' can even leave actual wounds when the loss of people or perhaps landmass is too great. This one'll be in my heart, an'... Remember the accidental shooting in July '14? That was enough t'hurt _real_ bad, so this'll be like a heartattack t'me. Ye can send me there, but I won't be o'much help, anyway." No, Ireland _wasn't _looking forward to the rising, not at all. He was only looking forward to seeing the results, but the rising itself terrified him. He wasn't anything like a masochist, so the pain he'd have to endure was something he'd rather avoid. But without a rising, he knew, freedom was a long time away yet.

Suddenly the doorbell rang, startling Ireland a little. Scotland already called that he'd go and... 'see' (he actually paused before saying that, and Ireland almost thought he could hear him sigh as he did so) who it was, but Ireland told him not to bother: he'd go look himself. But when he opened the door, he got a good shock. It was England. "A-Arthur..." he said, trying but failing to hide his nervousness. England was here at the same time as a key member of the IRB. He'd have to be very careful now. England just huffed, looking away. "Instead of gaping at me, you could also just let me in, you know," he muttered, after which Ireland realised it was raining and his little brother was already practically soaked. He stepped to the side to let England get in, stammering, "O-o'course, sorry. Arthur, w-why are ye here, i-if I may ask...?" Taking his coat off, England just shrugged. "It's not because I was _so _excited at the thought of seeing _you_ again, don't worry. I haven't quite lost my mind yet." He then turned to his older brother and said, "I'm just here for Allistair. I hope he's doing well?"

"O'course I am, Artie!" came the Scot's voice from the living room, and England's face lit up instantly. "Good," he sighed, a smile appearing on his lips as he looked at the door to the living room. Turning to Ireland again, he added, "I won't be staying long, don't worry about that. I just..." He trailed off, averting his eyes. Ireland just smiled, knowing he'd wanted to say he just needed to see Scotland. He gave the Englishman a pat on the shoulder and said, "Well, go on, then. I was busy, anyway. 'M sure he'd love some company." Seemingly annoyed, England shrugged his brother's hand off, but before he went to Scotland he looked over his shoulder at him and mumbled a quick "Thank you, Cearul..."

When he got back into his study, Pearse looked at him with narrowed eyes. "That wasn't, by any chance..." Ireland nodded and sighed. "That's England, all right. We have to be extra careful now." Either England was a bloody psychic, or he just had _great _timing. Whatever it was, this could turn out to be a real problem for the two Irishmen.

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**Still not comfortable with writing real people... Just worried that how I portray them is nothing like what they were like in real life, you know XD It's so much easier with fictional characters...**

**Well, the rising is getting closer now. Just a few more chapters I think. But this fic will go beyond that. It'll go as far as 1921, I think, and then perhaps some extra chapters on the future or something. So this isn't finished for a while yet!**

**I hope you liked it, and please leave a review. Always appreciated!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Longest chapter yet, even without AN~!**

**Anyways, thanks for yet another review, That One Guest. And yes, I'm much better already, thanks!**

**Well, I hope you'll like this chapter, and I don't own Hetalia.**

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For once, England had no idea what Ireland was doing, only that it wasn't good. He was being secretive and got all nervous the moment his younger brother arrived at his doorstep. He really wanted to know what he was doing, but he didn't dare take the risk to eavesdrop on him now, and he also didn't want to ask Scotland. Most of all, he just wanted to be with his older brother now and talk to him, to know how he's been doing and what he's been thinking about lately. How was he adjusting to his new life, were his wounds all healed, was he healthy again or still slightly off due to the gas? England had too many questions to ask, and decided to just be happy with any answer he could get.

"I'm glad to see you're doing so well," he said as he said down beside Scotland, who had his face turned in the direction of England's voice, ofcourse not quite looking at his younger brother, causing yet another sting in the younger nation's heart. At least his eyes were beginning to look like eyes again, though there still was no sign of a pupil. The fog seemed to be lifting a bit at the very least, which made them look just slightly less spooky. Scotland just smiled, the one moment England had the feeling he was actually looking at his brother instead of some shadow, an empty shell that resembled Scotland in some ways. "Ofcourse I'm doing well," the Scot said, ruffling his brother's hair a bit once he'd found it. "It's been over two weeks, the wounds are all healed, I'm learning to live in the darkness quite nicely, I'm not so sick anymore-" He paused suddenly, his smile fading and his eyes narrowing. "About being sick... How're you, Artie?"

"I'm..." England was at a loss for words for a moment. He didn't want to lie, he really didn't, but he had been doing so for a while now, and he wasn't willing to tell the truth just yet. "I'm doing rather fine myself, thank you," he eventually said. "We're getting economical help from America, and though I still hate his guts, it... it's really helping. Not to mention more nations have joined the battle against the Germans -like Italy, for example. But you... knew that already..." He trailed off. He had too many questions to ask, yet he couldn't get the words over his lips properly. Suddenly there were voices in the hallway, and both brothers turned towards it. Ireland and some other person, a human clearly, as he was Irish as well. They didn't say much, just a promise to keep contact more regularly and then a goodbye. Obviously they were friends or something of the sort.

The Irishman then entered the livingroom as well, though he ignored both of his younger brothers, knowing they'd want to talk with just the two of them for a moment, which they hadn't really done in two weeks and a year before those. They eventually got into a good conversation, which lasted until early in the afternoon. By then, the rain hadn't stopped yet. In fact, it had only gotten worse and was now accompanied by thunder. Ireland sighed as he realised there was no way he could send England home in this storm. He _really _didn't want to, but when the thunder had lasted for almost an hour already, he offered, "Y'know, Arthur, if ye want... Ye could stay here for the night, I s'pose." England just stared at him and raised an eyebrow. "Really now? Well, that's one thing I never expected to hear from _you_, of all people."

"I never expected to say it, either," Ireland muttered, glaring at the window, where the water was litteraly _streaming _down. "But I ain't sending ye away in weather like this. Yer already sick, after all -and don't deny it, idiot, ye _are_, even if today's a better day. Ye were soaked when ye got here, an' if I send ye away now, ye'll have to _swim_ home. And we all know ye can't swim." England rolled his eyes at the mocking way the last sentence was spoken and let his shoulders hang. "For the last time, Cearul," he grumbled. "Swimming is bad luck for a pirate! The men in my crew who could swim all died -killed, an illness, you name it. And the only nation who had a past as a pirate and could swim at the time was _Spain,_ and don't make me repeat what I did to his Armada with the Netherlands."

"Ye could have learned after the pirating age, y'know," Ireland suggested, shrugging. "But we're gettin' off topic. Ye wanna stay here t'night or what?" England hesitated for a minute or so, but then the thunder split the skies right above Ballinhassig once again, and he sighed, knowing very well driving in this weather was a bad idea. And most likely, the ferry to take him back to Wales wouldn't even leave in this storm. There wasn't really another option. "I suppose it won't hurt for just one night," he gave in eventually. "Thank you, Cearul." Scotland snickered for a moment, earning a glare from England, which he fortunately didn't know. "Really now, Artie? Ye _still_ can't swim?" The Englishman planted his forehead on the table and groaned, annoyed. "No, you git! And I'm not about to learn, either. I'm comfortable enough being _on _the water, _in _the water is a different story completely."

"But yer an island! Ye really-"

"NO!" England yelled, clearly not wanting to discuss the topic any further. "I haven't learned to, and I won't! I just don't want to, all right? That's what drowning does to a person, it's not like I can help it." Ireland tilted his head to one side and echoed, "Ye _drowned_?" The youngest of the brothers let out an exasperated sigh and gritted his teeth, then nodded. "Yes, I did. Long story, but the point is, had I been human, I'd have been dead at the bottom of the sea right now. _Living_ through it, however, hurts like hell. I've coughed up water for two or three days after that incident, and salt water has the ability to make one _really _sick. I'm not getting in water _ever again, _end of the story. Can we get on another topic now? Thank you." Scotland just smiled and patted him on the back, apologising, "Sorry, lad, but yer so easy t'piss off, it's funny."

When England reacted to that and the two got into a conversation again, though this time it also resembled a plain argument, Ireland got to his feet and went to the kitchen to make dinner. The food he'd planned to make was simple: potatoes, carrots and onion rings and then some lamb. Actually it was his lamb stew without the water, but he didn't care. It was just delicious, that's all there was to it. And luckily, there was enough for the three of them. He was only halfway with slicing the carrots, though, when the phone suddenly rang. Muttering under his breath a complaint about the interruption, he picked it up, instantly being greeted by a familiar voice. "Cearul, we might just have a little problem," came the nervous sounding voice of Wales. "Y'see, Artie left sometime this morning and hasn't come back yet, and with this storm-"

"Calm down, lad, he's here," Ireland replied, surpressing an annoyed sigh as he said this. He still didn't like the thought of England being in his home. "An' he ain't comin' home until tomorrow because of the storm. Could'na send him through that, now could I?" There was a relieved sigh on the other side of the line, followed by some chukles and a "Awww, you _do _care!" at which Ireland just huffed. "Blame it on bein' the oldest brother, shit happens," he said, then laughing himself. He couldn't help that bloody brother instinct kicking in on times like these, but he also didn't really mind it. But suddenly, Wales stopped laughing and was deadly serious again. "If he's with you now, then... Could you keep an eye on him for me?" Ireland narrowed his eyes, aking why, to which Wales only replied, "Just to make sure I'm not going crazy, worrying about nothing."

"Well," Ireland sighed, not really up to the task. If it weren't for Wales, he wouldn't have cared one bit. "What do I need to look out for, then?" There was a bit of a pause before his little brother spoke again. "I don't know why, but he's _constantly_ having nightmares lately, and it's just not normal anymore. Now, if it were only _that_, it wouldn't be such a problem, but I've noticed he has a habbit of barely or just _not_ eating anything the day after he's had a particularly bad one. That, and he seems to have lost the ability to smile completely. Sounds like a depression to you, too?" Ireland hummed in agreement, getting his brother's point now. It _was_ worrysome. "So just... see if anything like that happens, will you? I don't want this war to break him completely. If he does, so do we all... And, well," A short laugh now escaped Wales' lips. "Blame it on being the older brother!"

* * *

It didn't take too long before Ireland was finished making dinner after that, and while the three were eating together, England even _complimented_ him on his cooking skills. Well, England himself was a terrible cook, so anything was better than what he made, but still Ireland hadn't expected this one. And all through the rest of the evening, there wasn't so much as an argument anymore, and for some strange reason, Ireland almost got the feeling their relationship with eachother wasn't completely lost yet. Perhaps it could still be saved... _If it weren't for the rising soon, _the nation added silently, sighing. _That will definitely be the last thing to break this family apart..._ He really didn't look forward to the event itself, but he shrugged it off. It was almost midnight when England mentioned he'd be leaving rather early the next morning so he should get some sleep, with which Ireland and Scotland agreed. Unfortunately, the Irishman had only one spare bed, which was being occupied by Scotland already. So after declining his oldest brother's offer to use his, England just went to sleep on the couch. He slept rather quickly, but unfortunately for him, just because his fever was finally gone, that didn't mean the nightmares were as well.

England was in a small room with a young blonde nation, the floor beneath their feet swaying and a fresh salty tang in the air. He did so love the scent of the ocean. "Are ye sure he knows yer here? He's not just following us to steal my ship?" England, now with the physical age of fifteen asked the other, who was roughly ten years old. The child shook his head. "No, he's definitely following us because of me. He can be a bit... possesive." England hummed, trying to figure out the best course of action now. Eventually he smirked, ruffling the kid's hair as he put on his long, dark red coat and grabbed his sword. "Well then," he said, a dangerous tone his voice. "We'll give the man a warm welcome, shall we? Go grab yer weapons, kid." The younger nation nodded, jumped up and did as he was told. England went to the upper deck, immediately giving his crew orders. "Slow down, lads! Let 'em enter the ship, if they want to so badly. They won't be leavin' alive once they do!"

As his nation visitor joined him, he looked at the younger child over his shoulder. "Ye sure ye wouldn't rather be _my_ colony?" he asked with a playful grin. The child narrowed his eyes at him, very well aware it had only partially been a joke. "Rather yours than _Spanje's, ja_. But no, thanks for the offer." England chuckled. Well, it never hurt to try, did it? The Netherlands would make for a good colony, that was for sure. Though on the high seas they were rivals, they were also good trading partners.

It was only a matter of minutes before Spain's ship had caught up with England's, and as the young captain had ordered, his crew let the Spanish pirate captain and a few of his men enter the ship. "Ah, _Holanda!_" the mediteranean nation said as he spotted his colony. "Running away again, _tesoro?_" He shook his head in disagreement. "That's not how this works, _Holanda._ Now come back to me, and that's an order." The Netherlands huffed and narrowed his greenish blue eyes at his master. "_Ik ben niet gek,_" he muttered. "If you want me back, take me by force. You can't sweettalk me into it, _niet meer._" The Spaniard let our a hiss of annoyance from inbetween clenched jaws, then looked at England. "You," he said, speaking like it was an order he giving. "Fetch me the captain of this ship, would you, kid?"

"Yer lookin' at him," the younger nation replied cooly, narrowing his eyes. He then tilted his head to one side, causing sunlight to fall on the tiny emerald earring he had in his left ear, forming a bright green shimmer. It reflected right into Spain's companion's eyes, a kid not much older than England himself, if not a year or two younger. Annoyed, the other teen looked away, and England grinned, satisfied with the effects of such a simple thing. "What, ye want to trade something t'me in return for yer colony? Sorry, mate, but I'm planning to trade _with_ him." He took his sword out of its sheath, making it clear that either the Spaniard would leave right now, or there'd be a battle. "So he's right: ye'll have to take him by force." Suddenly, Spain's eyes widened and he laughed, "Ah, now I remember you! _Dios,_ you're _Inglaterra_, aren't you? You've grown since the last time we met, kid." Then, with a smirk, he added, "Are you sure you want to fight your older brother, though?"

"_Half_ brother," England corrected him, gritting his teeth. He didn't like to acknowledge the Roman blood in him, even less so his ties with the Roman family on European mainland, including Spain, France and North- and South Italy. He then realised the teenager behind Spain must be South Italy, or Italy Romano. He looked so much like Rome, it was almost scary. England had to surpress the hate welling up inside of him: he'd never gotten a chance to take revenge on his father for all the things he'd done to him, but he wasn't about to take it out on his nephew instead. He turned to Spain again and grinned. "Also, don't flatter yerself. Ye wouldn't be the first brother I've fought and defeated, y'know!" England hadn't even said that, or Spain charged forward with his sword, slashing at the younger nation with great speed and skill. But England was, due to his smalled size and thinner frame, faster and more agile, so he managed to dodge most of the attacks. He himself wasn't too bad with a sword, either, and it wasn't long before he cut the Spaniard deep in his left upper arm. With a glance to the side, he saw Netherlands was doing well in his battle against Romano. The kid was a good swordsman, he had to give him that.

After a few minutes of fighting, England had gotten Spain on his knees, disarmed, the teenage pirate's blade against his neck. "Now unless ye want to die," the young Englishman said, smirking. "I advise ye to go. _Without _the Netherlands. Allow me to trade with 'im in peace, an' I'll leave ye alone hereafter. Aye?" Spain glared at him, spitting on his boots. Disgusted by this, England took a step back, though still keeping his sword firmly on the other's neck. Suddenly, he heard a child's voice shriek, "_Engeland, kijk uit!_" and he looked to his right just in time to see Italy Romano charging at him, his own sword held high. With a blow too fast for England to block, he left a deep cut in the blonde's cheek. In sheer rage, England forgot Spain for a moment and fought Romano fiercely. It would have been best for him if he hadn't forgotten Spain for even a second. The Spaniard had grabbed his weapon again and used it to cut England in the ankles, causing him to lose balance. He fell against the edge of his ship, grabbing the wood as to not collapse onto the ground. His feet hurt too much after those cuts to even stand on, and he knew in that instant the battle was lost. He hadn't considered the thing Spain did next for even a second. "What shall we do with him now, Romano?" the Spanish pirate asked his young friend, towering above the bleeding England. The other replied something in Italian, to which Spain seemed to agree. He simply gave the English teen a hard shove, pushing him over the edge of the ship.

He hit the water with a loud splash, darkness immediately surrounding him. The first thing he noticed was the burning, stabbing pain in his cheek and ankles as the salt of the water crept into the cuts. Second was the feeling of water all around him, the cold chilling him to the bone. The third thing was the realisation that he couldn't breathe. Panic setting in, he opened his eyes, ignoring the salt pricking in them, momentarily blinding him for a bit. It wasn't the first time e'd fallen into water too deep to stand -as a kid he'd been shoved into a river more than once- so he had _some _experience in getting out of the water again on his own. He wasn't the best swimmer and he sure as hell would never swim voluntarily, though, but that was all. But this time, there was something that hadn't been there the previous times: _weight_. The sheath of his sword was made of metal and leather, fastened with a thick leather belt, and the long coat was as heavy as lead with the water weighing it down. Despite his efforts, he kept sinking deeper and deeper as his lungs began to _scream_ for oxygen. Eventually, instinct took over... and he inhaled.

* * *

England was awake abruptly, and it took him a moment before he could breathe again after drowning in his dream. The terror ebbed away rather quickly, but his stomach was churning as though he'd actually drank a pint or two of seawater. It hurt so much, he nearly doubled over in pain when he got up from the couch and onto his feet. As quiet as he possibly could, he hurried to where he knew the bathroom was, locking the door behind him. He collapsed onto his knees, leaning over the toilet and grabbing its edges tightly with both hands, just in time before he vomitted up the contents of his stomach. When he was finished, he was gasping for air, then flushed the toilet and went to drink a bit to wash that awful taste out of his mouth. Now _this_ dream, he blamed entirely on Ireland and Scotland, and rightfully so. If they hadn't reminded him of his one great fear -water, and especially _being in the water_\- he wouldn't have dreamt about this period at all for sure. Or at least the many times where he _won _the battles, instead of the one time he'd been defeated with a cowardly technique and nearly killed. Unlocking the door again, he went back to Ireland's couch and promptly fell asleep again the moment he laid down.

* * *

**A flashback/dream of the pirate age... I just had to. I've wanted to write that for a long time now XD And I thought the fear of water thing was a nice touch to character development here. Like, he's even more afraid of water than he is of dying a slow, painful death, so it's really bad (how they got him onto a submarine, since that isn't exactly _on_ the water, I have no idea)**

**And I actually planned even more for this chapter, but that would've made it much too long, so... (and yeah, this chapter was purely meant for some more character development and showing the relationship between Arthur and Cearul)**

**Oh! And some translations here ;)**

**Ik ben niet gek - I'm not crazy**

**Tesoro - treasure (used here as something like 'dear')**

**Engeland, kijk uit! - England, watch out!**

**And the rest should be obvious enough... I think**

**Anyway, I hope you liked it, and please leave a review on your way out~!**


	14. Chapter 14

**Aaannnd things are going downhill again for the brothers, as you've seen in the last chapter. Oh well, can't be helped...**

**For now, in the beginning at least, there is something one could almost call brotherly fluff, so it's not all drama and angst again yet. _Yet_.**

**Thanks for the review, That One Guest!**

**I hope you'll like the chapter, and I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

Ireland opened his bedroom window when he woke up the next morning, enjoying the fresh air now the storm had passed. He quickly put on some clothes, then left for the livingroom. In the hallway, he bumped into Scotland, or actually the other way around, and greeted him cheerfully. He'd had a perfect night of peaceful sleep for a change, so he didn't expect his mood to darken anytime soon. Then again, he had forgotten about England being there, so when he entered the livingroom and saw his youngest brother asleep on his couch, his good mood faded just the slightest. But, he told himself, England was only asleep at the moment, so he couldn't possibly start a fight or anything of the sort right now. In fact, and Ireland didn't like to admit this, right now, he was just plain cute. But hey, anyone was when they were asleep, so that didn't mean he wasn't a true monster, because he _was_.

Ireland walked over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder and gently shaking him. "Arthur. Hey, Arthur, wake up, lad." He heard Scotland let out a disappointed whine, complaining, "Aw, Cearul, d'ye _have _to wake him up? He's being so quiet for a change..." Ireland had to agree, but still, he continued to try and wake him up. Eventually, England cracked open one eye and blinked twice before looking up at Ireland, glaring a little. "G'morning..." he muttered before sighing and blinking again, now opening both eyes. Ireland just laughed and sat down beside his feet. "I know the couch's comfortable," he said, patting his little brother on the knees. "But I never imagined anyone t'sleep this good on it!"

England sat up and yawned. "Well, if it makes you feel any better," he said. "I didn't sleep _that_ good, but honestly, after a year on a submarine, even a floor with a simple rug looks welcoming." Suddenly, both of the brothers looked up when Scotland offered, "Hey, shall I go make breakfast for once?" Both England and Ireland grimaced, and almost simultaneously, they said, "Let's not do that, Al." Scotland himself laughed, agreeing that perhaps it hadn't been the best idea indeed. Instead, Ireland and England made breakfast together. At first Ireland was reluctant to let the Englishman help, but he'd just rolled his eyes and said that he knew how to make things like _eggs_ or _sandwiches_ at least. Those were the few things he didn't burn to a crisp.

As they were eating together, Ireland noticed one of the things Wales had mentioned to him the day before: England really w_as_ barely eating anything, though the older nation didn't say a word about it. Wales had only told him to observe, after all, and he didn't want to get into a fight now, when he only had to endure a few more minutes of his presence. It was going well so far, and he wasn't willing to ruin it on the last moment. "I have to go out for work a few hours today, Al," Ireland said, swallowing a bite of his egg. "It won't be long: just three, at most. Actually," he added, turning to England now, who didn't even look up for a moment. "If ye like, Artie, ye can stay here for a few hours longer, t'keep him company or whatever else." But England shook his head. "I can't, however much I would like to. I cannot leave Dylan to do all the work by himself _again_, now can I? In fact, I'll be leaving in a few minutes." He ruffled Scotland's hair, grinning, as he added, "Ofcourse, if you want, you could always come with me for a few weeks now!"

"Thanks, but I'll pass," the Scot laughed nervously, pushing away his little brother's hand as he did. "Last time I got into a car when not seeing anything, it didn't exactly turn out well... I'll wait a little while before trying that again, aye? I'll be coming home in a few weeks, I promise." With a smirk, he added more quietly, "Next time ye come, bring Dylan with ye, 'lright? High time we got the family together again!" At those words, Ireland's heart sank as he once again realised all this would end soon. He paled considerably, which didn't go unnoticed by England, who instantly asked, "Cearul? Cearul, are you all right?" Scotland now turned his blind gaze in Ireland's direction as well, narrowing his eyes in worry. "Somet'ing wrong, Old Man?" Ireland shook his head slowly, but his stomach didn't quite agree with that as it seemed to do a sommersault. "I-I think breakfast just ain't agreein' with me," he lied as he got up, quickly making his way to the bathroom.

England, ofcourse, didn't fall for it. He'd been lying for so long himself, he could recognise a lie such as this when he heard it. His own stomach tightened painfully as he heard his older brother throwing up his guts, it seemed, and he felt bad for him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was also worried that, since he could easily hear Ireland now, perhaps they'd heard _him_ as well last night. But if they had, they hadn't mentioned it, to his relief. When Ireland got back, Scotland instantly asked, "Ye all right, brother? If ye're gettin' sick, then-"

"No, no, I'm fine," Ireland replied, shaking his head as he sat down again. "As I said, breakfast just ain't agreein' with me this morning. I'm feeling much better already, so dun'worry 'bout me." This, at least, was true for all England could see: his brother wasn't as pale anymore as when he'd left the room, and this just plain hadn't been a lie, he knew. Still, however reluctantly, he offered, "I could stay here for one more day if you're really not feeling good, Cearul. I'm sure Dylan would understand." But again, Ireland shook his head and declined the offer. "I'm tellin' ye, I'm fine again. Thanks, Artie, but ye have t'leave soon, right? Just go, if ye really want." England huffed and got to his feet, wordlessly gathering the three empty plates and silverware, earning a stare from the Irishman. So, as he was about to walk out of the room, he said, "Then I'll do the dishes now and then I'll leave. You just catch your breath, all right?" There was a moment of silence before Ireland called after him, stunned, "Th-thanks, Arthur!"

* * *

As he was doing this little chore, said goodbye to both his brothers and got into his car, driving away, there was one feeling England couldn't shake: Ireland was hiding something important. He didn't like this thought at all, but he could understand many reasons to keep a secret. He himself always kept quiet about everything he was thinking and feeling, after all. While he could not surpress and also not always hide emotions, he was an expert in not telling why he felt that way, what had brought him to that point. Apparently, that ran in the family, as Ireland now appeared to do exactly the same thing. But England could at least imagine _what _had caused Ireland to be so nervous that morning. He'd gotten pale the moment Scotland mentioned something about the family getting together again, so it probably had something to do with that. Suddenly, the dots were connecting in his mind, and he knew. He just _knew._ _Supporting the Germans... no, even before that. Importing weapons. Never telling me anything useful on that matter. Obviously frustrated over the delay in Home Rule, which he's been demanding for decades now. Just yesterday, a private conversation with a human, now suddenly having to go out for work, while we usually do that right from our own homes..._ He didn't quite know why, but after those thoughts, only one word still remained in his mind, clear and terrifying._ Rebellion._

His pulse quickened as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white with the force of it. Surely Ireland wasn't planning something as radical as that? Suddenly, he got the feeling that he wasn't just leaving behind him his two older brothers, but a whole world. A perfect little world in which there were tensions, but no real fights. A warm world in which, beneath all the harsh remarks, lay nothing but love. A world that, despite the hardships they'd had to endure, was peaceful and whole. Now everything was shattering, fading, broken and gone. Great risks suddenly appeared, the risk of him losing everything and everyone he loved, the risk of them all getting hurt, even the risk of them _dying_ in the battle that was soon to come. "Cearul, you git," he muttered under his breath, swallowing the lump that was growing in his throat. "I would have given you Home Rule, I swear I would have. If you just wait _a few more years, _I promise you..." He had trouble breathing for a moment, his hands beginning to tremble, and he thanked the heavens he was driving on a quiet and empty countryside road, with no other vehicles even close to him, or he'd have been a danger on the road. "Why _now,_ of all times?" he demanded, even though Ireland was miles away and couldn't possibly hear him. "Do you honestly want to be the death of us all? Cearul, please, not during a war such as this. _Not now._" His vision was getting blurry and he felt warm tears pricking in the corners of his eyes, and he blinked them away, already hitting the breaks as he knew he had to pull over for a minute. He couldn't drive like this. "But you know what?" he whispered to himself as he stood still on the edge of the road, placing his head against the steering wheel, still gripping it tightly between his fingers. "I'll let him... I'll let him... And I'll make him regret it. He'll wish the thought had never even occured to him! _That godforsaken traitor!_" A sob then made its way over his lips, and he clenched his jaws tightly. God forbid he'd cry over something like this, he was stronger than that. But at the same time, he just knew he wasn't. He wasn't strong enough to endure it all, and he was reaching his breaking point. All he needed was one last push to throw him over the edge, and he'd break. Shatter like the glass doll he was deep inside. And he also knew, however painful it was, that for all this he had no one but himself to blame.

* * *

Ireland was rather passionate about training the Volunteers, he had to admit. It was the one moment he could forget his doubts and fears and discomfort about the upcoming rising, and just do what he loved. Shooting imaginary Englishmen and teaching others to do so. He had never expected himself to enjoy it as much as he did, but it gave him a sense of revenge without even drawing blood from a real enemy. After sevenhundred years of opression would finally come the day of payback, and as he walked among his men and saw their progress, he could think about freedom without the pain that came with it. He wouldn't hurt anyone. He would save countless lives from living in a cage with no doors. And it felt great.

"That ain't how ye shoot 'em Brits, lads!" he said on top of his voice, as he was accustomed to by now. "We went over this a great many times, men," he went on, tapping one of the Volunteers on the shoulder, giving him a quiet order to hand him his rifle. He reloaded it then aimed at one of the wooden targets, which were carved into the shape of humans. "To kill 'em..." He now placed his indexfinger on the trigger, ready to shoot any second. "Ye need to hit 'em right between the eyes." He fired a shot, and the bullet went through the middle of the wooden head more than ten meters away from him. Satisfied, he turned around and faced the group of men again. His eyes sought out one in particular, and he pointed at the man when he found him. "You," he said, approaching the man slowly. The human didn't even flinch, which was good. "Ye've done well so far, lad. But tell me, even though the English have a stick up their arse, they dun'stand still like 'em wooden targets, do they?"

"No, sir," the human replied, not looking at the nation. Ireland nodded. "Exactly. So ye, as ye seem t'be the best out o'this lot, must now practice on a movin' target. Ye up fer it?" The human agreed, knowing that he wasn't even allowed to decline. Ireland turned around then and walked toward the targets wordlessly, the rifle still in his hands. As he stood amongst the wooden targets, he spun around and faced the Volunteer, yelling the order to shoot him. The human raised his weapon and aimed, but there came no shot yet. When the man finally fired, he rolled sideways and avoided the bullet with ease, jumping to his feet a second later and storming toward him, rifle lifted not to shoot, but to stab him with the bayonet. He could see the human's wide eyes of shock, the hesitation on his expression. But he didn't slow down one second, knowing these men were well trained and knew exactly what to do in this situation. When he was only a few meters away, the man shot, the bullet going through Ireland's hip. Excruciating pain shot through his left leg, and he fell, sliding through the dirt headfirst. As he skidded to a halt, he pressed a hand to the entry wound, but pushed himself to his knees without a second thought, ignoring the pain. He looked up at the man, who was looking down at him with a horrified expression. Ireland just smiled, slowly getting to his feet again, putting next to no pressure on his left leg. "Very well done," he praised the human, who stared at him, baffled. "The one thing even better than to shoot to kill in such situations, is to shoot to immobilise 'em. Killin' can come later. First and foremost, ye need ta make sure ye live, 'cause ye won't get second chances." He looked around and saw that some men were still horrified at someone being shot like that and seeming not to even feel it. Once, Ireland had been accidentaly hit in his chest. Humans had swarmed around him, frantically trying to help him, but he'd simply opened his shirt and showed them the wound, which was closing already right before their eyes. From that moment on, they knew they should never doubt their leader: he was immortal, could not be killed under normal circumstances. They trusted him with their life, but what they didn't know, was that he trusted them with his.

But eventually the hours came to an end, and he had to leave for home again. He wanted to be with Scotland again, discuss things, perhaps go for a stroll together as the Scot hadn't exactly been outside in a while. But as he left, the feeling of satisfaction and confidence faded, and he once again questioned what in the name of hell he was doing. _Why_ did he work so hard, only to tear the family apart? And why, _for Heaven's sake why_, did he so enjoy the idea of shooting the English for all they'd done to him, _one of them _in particular?

He wasn't _just _feeling sick at that moment, and self-loathing was an understatement.

* * *

When England got home early in the afternoon, Wales greeted him with a smile. "Hey, Artie! Look, 'bout yesterday, I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't underestimate the tensions between you and Ame- Arthur?" The Englishman just stared at him, not knowing why he suddenly stopped in the middle of his sentence like that. He hummed questioningly, and his older brother sighed. "Are you all right? You look a little... off." England shook his head and smiled at him as he hung up his coat. "Ofcourse I am! A little tired, given, but otherwise completely okay. Why?" Wales shrugged and inspected him a little further. "I don't know, you just... Well, _off_, that's how you look, but... Never mind." Ofcourse Wales knew he was lying, England could see that much. But he really wasn't up for some openhearted emotional talk now. The Welshman just turned around, saying he had been in the middle of doing some paperwork and would finish that now. But as he walked away, a voice suddenly cried out, "No, no, no, no, don't listen to me! _Don't listen to me, please!_ I'm not okay!" He was breaking down, tears going down his face and screams tearing from his throat as he reached for his brother. "I'm not okay, can't you see?! I need help, brother, don't leave me!_ I need you!_"

But his smile hadn't left his lips yet. The voice had only been in his head. And in his head it remained.

* * *

**Both of them seem to have a depression right now... But that'll be fixed eventually, don't worry about that.**

**The next chapter will be the day of the rising! Might take a little while, as I have a lot of tests the coming two weeks (and then a week of autumn holidays after that, thank goodness) and have to read up on the actual rising itself first. But at least you have something to look forward to with this, right?**

**I hope you liked it, and please leave a review before you go!**


	15. Chapter 15

**The day of the Rising has finally come!**

**To That One Guest and Nolesr1: thank you both very much for the reviews!**

***Warning: this chapter contains quite some swearing. And bits and pieces of violence, though nothing explicit**

**I hope you like it! I do not own Hetalia**

* * *

August: he was training the Volunteers. All through September, October and November, it was the same story. December gave him some time off from that. Scotland had spend that month with Wales and England, and the four of them had tried to celebrate Christmas together. But tensions between England and Ireland were running high, and the Irishman knew his younger brother was on to something, though he hadn't said a word yet. January: he got back to training. Meetings were becoming more frequent again. In February, he got the specific date for the rising: April 23 and 24, Easter. It was also st. George's Day, which was a nice touch to frustrate the English even more. In March, Scotland came back to live with Ireland again, stating that worked better for them both: Ireland needed some company now and then, and Scotland didn't want to be a nuisance to the other two, who were constantly on edge nowadays because of the war. He couldn't help them with work as he could no longer write or read so much as a word. April was busy from the start. England _did_ know about the rising, or at least that something was coming, yet the IRB leaders didn't see the need to stop it from happening. It would come, and it would be a statement at the very least. At best, the English would let them go at once, not wanting to deal with them anymore, though that wasn't likely. Ireland himself was getting more nervous with the minute as that day approached quickly, and in fact, he was downright _scared_.

And now it was the dawn of the 24th. The day of the rising was finally there.

Ireland had the Proclamation clutched in his right hand, and he was staring at it almost in fear. _Poblacht na H Eireann. The Provisional Government of the Irish Republic to the people of Ireland_. It was really happening. It was happening _today._

Trying to surpress the trembling of his fingers, he handed Proclamation back to Pearse, who was to read it out loud at the General Post Office after they'd captured it. "I wish ye luck, Padraig," he said looking the man in the eye, then turning to the other two. "And ye as well, o'course, Seamus, Joe." James Connolly and Joseph Plunkett nodded, determined to do this right. It was going to be hard, though. Only about 10% of the troops had actually showed up. "And," Connolly said with a sigh after telling his nation this. "The men to take the Central Telephone Exchange also haven't showed up. British forces will be able to communicate with ease like this." But then he shook his head and reassured Ireland, "We'll take it later, though. It doesn't matter yet."

"You sure you won't even go as far as the GPO with us?" Plunkett asked, looking over his shoulder at the few troops they had. But Ireland shook his head. "Seeing as it won't go without battle, most likely," the nation said, "I won't even make it much further than that. And I've got me brother at home. Stayin' away too long'll be suspicious." After a short goodbye, Ireland turned and left, making his way home as quick as he could. The Volunteers and Citizen Army, now joined together as the Irish Republican Army, had taken anything that could be used as a weapon with them for this. Rifles, swords, even pickaxes and sledgehammers. There would definitely be a lot of fighting today, and Ireland needed to be home before that happened. First and foremost because he wanted to be there to defend his home and brother, should it be necessary. Also because it lessened the chance of his brothers thinking he had anything to do with it. He wasn't even halfway when churchbells rang. Midday. This was the moment the real rising would start. He quickened his pace, cursing himself that he hadn't taken his car and had to walk home now. Driving through Dublin on a day like this just hadn't seemed all that smart to him, but neither did walking. Just being in Dublin in general right now was a dangerous thing, and he would take Scotland with him and go back to Ballinhassig as soon as he got home.

But a tiny sting in his heart told him battle had already started and the first shot had been fired. He broke into a sprint, only thinking of getting home to his little brother before he couldn't even so much as move anymore. "They are at the GPO," he said to himself, gonig through the plan in his mind once again. "Then others should be at the Four Courts, an' Mallins in at St. Stephen's Green..." His heart was racing, not just because he was running faster than he had ever done before. Today, England would finally see just how serious his brother was about becoming independent. Today, his people would finally know the door of their cage was slowly being opened. Today was his first big leap towards freedom and bright new era. Today-

"A-agh!" when a new pain stabbed him in the heart, stronger than the little stinging he'd felt a few minutes ago, he tripped, sliding over the pavement before slowly skidding to a halt. He trembled for a few seconds, shocked by the sudden impact with the ground. His knees, elbows, hands and right side of his jaw burned where they had scraped over the stone ground, but without even thinking, he got back on his feet and continued running again. "South Dublin Union hospitals," he said under his breath as he ran. "The Distillery. Then Sean should nearly be at Dublin Castle..." Despite the uncomfortable stinging, his heart nearly fluttered out of his chest. Dublin Castle was the center of British rule in the city, in the whole of Ireland even, and if they could take _that_... "England won't be so d'termined t'stop me after _that_," he whispered with a grin spreading on his face. Silently, he pleaded to the Heavens that Sean Connolly and his rebels would succeed. Now that would be one in the eye for his little brother!

By the time he thought he'd run at least a mile, he slowed down, gasping for breath. "Be God...!" he forced over his lips between gasps. "I shoulda taken me car... Or trained more... Forget revolution, _this_'ll be the fuckin' death o'me!" When he caught his breath again, he lifted his hands to inspect his palms. They were covered in blood and dirt from his fall earlier, and he made up his mind in a second. He sucked in his cheeks to gather enough saliva, then spat on the bleeding scrapes to clean the dirt out of them. It stung pretty bad, but anything was better than walking around with two infected hands. When he got the dirt out of them, he spat on one hand again and rubbed it against his jawline, which he felt was also open and bleeding. "Didn't e'en realise 'twas _such _a- AH!" His hands immediately went to his chest as the strongest pain yet suddenly struck him, leaving him gasping for breath once again. "Oh yeah," he said, gritting his teeth in pain. "They're at the Castle, alright. They're at the Castle now." Not standing around to think any longer, he went running again. With this, there was no doubt England knew what was happening as well, as Dublin Castle was one of the few points in Ireland that would also hurt _him_ when attacked, and knowing him, he was on his way the moment he felt pain, if not sooner. If that were the case, this would only be the one thing to make him go even faster, throwing aside all speed limits just for this. When England was pissed, he was _pissed._

He'd only been running for another five or six minutes when the pain struck again, and this time, he stumbled into an alley and sat down against a wall, a hand tightly grasping his chest. "C'mon, c'mon," he whispered under his breath as the pain did not subside this time around. "I needa get home. I needa get to Al. C'm_on_, just leave a'ready!" But it did not, and he tried his best to surpress the panic welling up inside him.

* * *

"Arthur, you should try to relax a bit," Wales said carefully to his brother, who was gripping the steering wheel of his car so tightly, his knuckles were white. His shoulders were raised to almost jawheight, his teeth bared as he gritted them. "The bloody bastard," he hissed inbetween his jaws. "He won't get away with this! If he hasn't done so himself yet, I'll _kill _him! _I swear I'll fucking kill him!_" Wales flinched as his little brother said this, nearly screaming the words in sheer rage. His eyes did nothing to soften his words: they were fixed on the road before him, gleaming with bloody murder. But suddenly, his back arched in pain and he closed his eyes, remembering in time to hit the breaks, slowly stopping the car. Startled, Wales reached out to him, placing one hand between England's shoulderblades, the other on his chest to slowly and carefully push him back into his seat. He used the hand between his brother's shoulders to put pressure on what seemed to be the center of the pain, hoping it would help at least a bit to ease it. When England seemed to relax just a little more and his breathing became rythmic again, the Welshman asked, "Arthur, what... what was that?"

England sighed. "That," he answered, opening the door on his side of the car, much to Wales' surprise, "was Dublin Castle, no doubt. I'm getting out here, and will search for that bloody traitor. You take the car and drive to his home, make sure Allistair's all right. If Ireland is there too, keep him there. I will come as well if I don't find him within two hours." With those words, he got out of the car, and Wales moved to the driver's seat. He leaned forward quickly as England was about to walk off without so much as looking back, grabbing his little brother by the wrist to stop him. England turned around, his emerald eyes seemingly trying to burn holes into his brother at that moment. This time, however, Wales didn't flinch and returned the stare. "Whatever you do, Arthur," he said slowly, letting the words sink in as he spoke. "Be careful. And do _not_, under any circumstances, kill our brother, no matter _how _angry you are. I _don't _want this family to fall apart, you hear me?" But England only glared at him. "It's too late for that already, Wales," he replied cooly, using his brother's nation name as he did, which he usually only did when in conversation with others or when he wanted to emotionally distance himself from them. And _that_, he only ever did when he was so angry he wanted to beat them into hospital, which wasn't often. For that reason, it goes without saying that this one simple word left a hole in Wales' heart as his little brother pulled his arm free and walked off into the chaos that was Dublin.

* * *

By now, Ireland had crept to the back of the alley, out of view of any humans, be it rebels, British forces or civilians. Pain was a constant presence now, and not just in his heart anymore. He knew the rising was planned to begin in Dublin, then spread through all of Ireland to startle the English and confuse them, unabling them of proper reaction. But it _hurt._ It hurt so much. "I'm s-sorry, Al..." he whispered, his breathing laboured. "Take care o'yerself fer now, laddie... I-I promise I'll be home soon..." But he knew he wouldn't. Not like this. All this wouldn't have been a problem if the Germans hadn't used their _fucking_ gas on his little brother. Then Scotland would probably not be here now, or, seeing as it was Easter, he'd be here, but being alone wouldn't be a problem because he could _defend_ himself if necessary. He could _see._

Gritting his teeth, the battered Irishman pushed himself to his feet in one last effort to make it home, but couldn't take more than one step before the next wave of pain. He staggered, his sight blurring for a moment that lasted long enought for him to fall over, hitting his head against the wall. When he hit the ground again, he wasn't unconscious with the impact his head had suffered, though he wouldn't have minded if he were. That headache was the last thing he needed right now to drive him over the edge. He curled up where he lay, placing both hands, which were open and bleeding again, over his heart, grasping his shirt and skin tightly. So tightly, even, he believed he was cutting himself with his nails at that moment, but he didn't feel properly. The pain in his heart itself was too intense to feel anything else at the moment. "Please," he whispered, a quiet plea he could only barely get over his lips. "Please, be over with it soon... Just... end it..."

"I believe I could do that for you," a voice suddenly answered, and he opened his eyes, only then realising he'd closed them before. His swaying vision did nothing to help with recognising the person that was approaching him, especially since he could only see two black boots coming ever closer. A few metres away from him, they halted, and the person kneeled down. Green military uniform... Then a hand grabbed him by his hair, pulling his head back painfully, forcing him to look at the person towering above him. When his vision was steady enough, he recognised the face of his little brother, his expression cold and emotionless but his eyes burning with a green fire of rage. "In fact," England said cooly, his lips twisting into a grin. "I would _gladly _put you out of your misery right now, _brother dear._" Strangely, Ireland felt not even a hint of fear.

* * *

When Scotland heard the front door open, he jumped up from where he'd sat. "Cearul?" he called tentatively. He couldn't shake the feeling that even the house he was in wasn't a safe place to be right now. He'd heard the rumours of what was happening in Dublin right now, which was only twenty minutes away _on foot_. Last thing he needed now was some crazy rebels pointing a gun at his head. Or swinging a pickaxe, for that matter. "C-Cearul, 's that you?" There was no immediate answer, and his heart sank, fear taking over. What if something had happened to his older brother? He just made up his mind to search the telephone and call Wales or England and tell them what was going on here, when the person who had entered the house called back. "Allistair, it's me, Dylan!" Thank God, it was Wales. It was just Wales. _But what about Ireland?!_

Walking quickly, he made his way to the hallway where his younger brother was, not wanting to be alone in this godforsaken uncertainty a second longer. "Dylan!" he called out, his hand trailing on the wall beside him. "Have ye seen Cearul some'ere? Thank God yer here!" Suddenly, he walked into something rather hard, and he stumbled backwards, rubbing the bridge of his nose with one hand. Stumbling backwards didn't work out for him, either, as he scraped his hip against the egde of the table which, mind you, was sharp. "Agh!" he exclaimed, more in frustration than in pain as he now clutched his hip as well. He didn't feel any liquid, so it wasn't bleeding, but there was warmth so he sure as hell had a good scrape there now. "Damn it all!" Suddenly, two hands grabbed him by the shoulders, and his brother's voice came again. "Allistair! You all right? Here, let me help-"

"I don't want yer goddamned help!" the Scot yelled, swatting Wales' hands away and taking a step away from him, careful not to hit the table or any chairs this time. Right now, he wanted to see Wales' face _so bad_, just to see his sudden reaction hadn't hurt his little brother too much. He hadn't meant to be so harsh, especially not since all the younger nation had tried to do was help him. But it just happened, and he couldn't surpress it right now. "Al!" Wales exclaimed, and by now, Scotland's thoughts had turned into a chanting in his mind, saying _Let me see you, let me see you, let me see you. Please don't be hurt, don't look at me like that, don't take it wrong. Just __**let me see you**__._ But the darkness was unwavering, and it was _everywhere._ "Al," the Welshman spoke softly, "calm down, all right?"

"I DUN'WANNA CALM DOWN!" Scotland's sudden scream surprised himself as much as it did Wales, but there was no stopping the rant that streamed over his lips like a tidal wave now. "D'ye have any idea what's goin' on in Dublin right now? Where's Artie? Where's Cearul? Please tell me they're all right!" A shocked silence of a few seconds followed before Wales replied softly, "I-I wish I could..." Now, Scotland just let out a scream of anger and frustration, gripping his hair tightly for the sake of gripping _something,_ nearly pulling several strands out with the force of it. "I should be out there, lookin' fer them! I should... I should... I WAS ALWAYS THE STRONG ONE IN THIS FAMILY, DYLAN! I was always the one to protect my brothers to the best o'my ability, not the other way 'round! An' _right now,_ Artie an' Cearul are out there, _in danger_, an' what can I do but sit here an' _wait?_ I'M WEAK AN' USELESS LIKE THIS! I'm sick o'this ne'erendin' darkness, sick o'not bein' able to take care o'meself properly, sick o'bein' a nuisance to you all! If I ne'er regain my sight, just kill me! If I have ta be blind and useless fore'er, KILL ME!_ Please, kill me right now an' be done with it!"_ He collapsed onto his knees, his hands clenched into tight fists.

"A-Allistair!" Wales exclaimed, kneeling in front of his brother who was clearly having a mental breakdown right now, unsure what to do. "Like hell I'll kill you! You're my brother, for heaven's sake! You'll never be a nuisance, I love you too much for that! I love you _so much_, Al, words cannot describe it! You're my brother, my best friend, sometimes even a father figure... You will never be a nuisance, a liability, useless... Never. You're still the light of this family, no matter what!" But Scotland shook his head, a soft whimper leaving his lips before he whispered, "The light of the family that has to spend his life in a world of unrelenting darkness... how ironic." Now, Wales grabbed him by the shoulders, and Scotland could imagine him staring his older brother right in the eyes with that mossy gaze of his the Scot loved so much. His eyes had always reminded him of the forests they had grown up in. "Al, don't say that! R-remember what you told me during Christmas last year? You said you wouldn't give up on _anything_. You wouldn't give up until you saw the sun again, remember? Until you saw the waves crashing over the rocks at your coast? All the trees and flowers in full bloom in the spring?" He was speaking quickly, giving away the panic he was trying to hide so well. "You cannot give up on that! You _will_ see again, Allistair, I promise you!" He let go of Scotland's shoulders, wrapping them around his neck and and back instead, pulling him into a firm embrace. "You cannot give up, Allistair... We won't either. I love you, we _all_ love you, so please... don't give up on us." Scotland could hear the tears in his little brother's voice, and he knew at that moment that he didn't even _have _to see them to know how they felt, know how to help them. But right now, he knew, _he_ was the one who needed help. He put his arms around Wales, returning the embrace, placing his face against his shoulder. His own tears had been rolling down his face even before he began screaming he wanted to die, sobs now wrecking his body as he sat there, holding onto Wales for dear life, crying out all the pain and frustration he'd felt over the past year.

* * *

England sat down beside Ireland, patting him on the head in a mocking gesture. "You just _had _to dig your own grave, didn't you?" Ireland just huffed, muttering, "Better me than _you_." England nodded, agreeing with this, though he also replied, "I could still put you in it, though. As I said, I'll just be putting you out of your misery right now." He hadn't even said this, or he grabbed the gun he had attached to his belt already. It was a handgun, a simple one-shot weapon. But one shot was all he needed to erase this treacherous pest. Ireland just glared up at him weakly, tortured by the pain going through his heart. "Well?" he asked impatiently. "What're ye waitin' fer? If ye want to _so badly,_ just go ahead an' put out me lights." England nodded, "Oh, I'll 'put out your lights', as you so accurately described it, trust me." He placed the barrel of the gun against his oldest brother's head, the position he'd wanted to be in for so long. His finger was on the trigger already, ready to pull back and end this miserable country once and for all. But something was stopping him, and he knew... _he couldn't shoot._ But he wasn't about to go back on his promise to put him out of his misery right here, rigth now. He raised his gun, gripping it tightly. "Lights out time, Cearul," he said softly, bringing the steel weapon down with amazing speed, crashing it against the back of Ireland's head, who was knocked unconscious the very second of impact.

* * *

**Before I forget, here is some more of Scotland's song that fits very well right now: "As I burn, as I break, I can't take it anymore. I'll return to the place where the water covers over everything. Rescue me somehow! Hold me now, until the fear is leaving, I am barely breathing. Crying out, these tired wings are falling, I need you to catch me. Hold me now..."**

**Well, I hope you liked it, and please leave a review on your way out!**


	16. Chapter 16

**First of all... OMG That One Guest! That was, like, the best review I've had in ages, thank you! (squee~!) And sorry for making you cry again. I hope you've had the time for that heart maintainance? If not, prepare yourself for this one...**

**Because finally, you'll find out the exact reason England hates his brothers the way he does (smirk)**

***Warning: some more foul language in this. And heartbreak. Lost of heartbreak.**

**I hope you'll enjoy this chapter, and I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

It took a little while before both Wales and Scotland had calmed down again, the younger planting a short kiss on his older brother's forehead before getting up, holding out his hand to him to help him up. "I believe we should be getting in the car to search for our brothers now, right?" Scotland nodded and got to his feet, holding onto Wales' arm as his younger brother led him out of the house and to England's car, taking place in the passenger's seat with Wales driving. "Y'know," the Welshman said with clear worry in his voice. "I would prefer to find either one of them before they find eachother. I don't know about Cearul, but Arthur seemed ready to go on a bloody killing spree when he got out of the car."

"And ye didnae stop 'im?" Scotland asked, eyes wide, clearly shocked. Wales shook his head and sighed, "I tried to, more or less, but how could I? You know what he's like when he gets like that..." Scotland nodded slowly, closing his eyes as a sigh escaped his lips. "He can be a bloody demon, that lad..." He, too, was afraid of what England would do to Ireland while he was in this state. He also knew with a certainty that England would never hurt anyone if he was in his right mind, but right now, he _wasn't_ in his right mind at all, blinded by rage. "Does he have a weapon on him?" the Scot asked, causing a shiver to go down Wales' spine. "H-he does," the younger nation said softly, his voice quivering with fear. "I didn't want to take it from him... in case he has to defend himself, but-" The Welshman suddenly trailed off, leaving his older brother to stare at him with unseeing eyes. "But... Dylan? What's wrong?"

"We have to get out here. NOW!" This said, Wales quickly opened the door on his side of the car, jumped out and ran off. Scotland panicked a little, though he tried not to show it. His trembling fingers were searching for the door handle, but he couldn't find it, so he just sat there. When he heard Wales call out to someone, he calmed himself just the slightest now that he knew he wasn't being left behind in this chaos. "Arthur!" Wales called. "Arthur, what are you-? Stop that right now!" Scotland bit his lip, cursing his blind eyes once again as he tried to figure out what was going on. "_He_ was attacking _me_, Dylan!" England's voice came, sounding on edge. "I was only defending myself, you git!" Scotland's heart sank. Was he talking about Ireland? "No shit, Artie!" Wales yelled back, obviously enraged. "Ofcourse he was attacking you! It's a _rebel_, you are _English_, carrying an unconscious _Irishman_ over your shoulders -he _is _unconscious,_ right?_" There was a short moment of silence before England's voice answered, "Ofcourse he is! I gave him a nasty bruise, not a hole in his head! What in the name of Hell are you doing here, anyway? I thought I told you to wait at Ireland's place with Scotland! Where is he?"

"In the car, waiting for us. Now get in, you bloody wanker!" Wales said, an Scotland could hear he was having a hard time restraining himself from beating his little brother to a pulp, he was that angry. Two sets of footsteps came closer to the vehicle, one pair slower and sounding heavier than the other, and Scotland kew that must be England, who was apparently carrying Ireland. The door beside Scotland opened, and Wales' voice came, "Al, please get in the back, we need you to look after Cearul for the time being!" With a short nod, the Scot didn't hesitate before getting out of the car, his hand trailing on the cold metal before finding the door to the backseat. He sat down as fast as he could, having Ireland placed against him almost immediately. His older brother was trembling, letting out a soft whimper every now and then as pain kept torturing his body. Scotland reached for him, gently placing the Irishman's head on his lap, holding onto him firmly. His two younger brothers bean bickering again. "No! Wales, my car, I drive."

"Oh really now? Forgot that near-accident on the way here, did you? With all this going on-!" But England wouldn't take no for an answer. "Oh, the only thing you know how to ride properly is a _horse!_ I can get us out of here much faster. Now _get in and shut up!_" Grumbling, Wales did as he was told, England taking his place behind the steering wheel, speeding off the moment all doors were closed. Scotland placed his hand on Ireland's cheek as he let out another soft whimper, his muscles tightening as another wave of pain went through his body. "It'll be all right, brother," he whispered to him. "It'll be all right..." He then looked up, his eyes turned in the direction of the driver's seat. "Artie, that human... ye didn't..._ shoot_ him, did ye?" England huffed. "Ofcourse not! I just kicked the living daylight out of him, is all. I don't kill people if I can help it." Somehow, Scotland didn't feel all that reassured.

* * *

Ireland opened his eyes slowly, blinking a few times before the world came into focus again. He then saw all three of his younger brothers around him, staring at him accusingly. He then noticed he was in a bed, in a room that was vaguely familiar to him, he just couldn't remember where it was. England huffed as he looked at him, averting his emerald gaze the moment Ireland returned the stare. Wales looked at him with disappointment in his mossy green eyes, Scotland just sighed, his blind eyes looking down at the floor. Anger welled up in Ireland, and he pushed himself into a sitting position. His whole chest was sore, and he almost flinched. "If yer waitin' fer me t'say I'm sorry," he muttered, glaring at England and Wales. "Ye can wait forever. Because _I'm not_." Wales narrowed his eyes. "Do you even realise you put us all in danger with that stunt you pulled? A rebellion, in the middle of the Great War, no less! Have you completely lost your mind, Cearul?" Somewhere in the back of his mind, Ireland suddenly recognised this room as being part of Wales' house, and he directed his glare at England now in full rage. "Why did you even bring me here?"

"Because, apparently," England retorted, answering the glare without holding back one bit. "I care about my brothers, unlike _you!_" This went too far for Ireland, who nearly jumped out of the bed to give the little bastard a good punch in the stomach. "_Excuse me?_ How dare ye imply I don't care 'bout my brothers! Allistair would back ta differ, what with me having taken care of him for _months_. As for Dylan, I care more about him than my own people!"

"Then why not _me?_" England suddenly yelled, his voice losing some of its stability. "Why don't you care about _me_ as well? I'm your brother, too! And _don't_ tell me it's because of the things I've done to you, because that's not it! From the moment I was born, you've never cared about me!" For a moment, Ireland didn't know what to say, but then his anger got the upper hand again. "O'course it's because of all ye've done to me! Ye've been bossing me around fer _centuries!_ Seven. Bloody. Centuries, England! Ye've terrorised my people, ye would'a let me starve to death only last century! You-!"

"And it's still not even _half _of what you deserve!" England yelled back, his voice high-pitched with anger. "All the pain you went through because of me isn't _nearly _as bad as what I went through because of _you!_" Ireland knew what he was talking about, but didn't quite agree with his little brother. "Oh, are ye still goin' on 'bout that? England, ye should be over that by now, fer Heaven's sake!" At this, England flinched as though his brother had just slapped him in the face, his eyes wide with shock and pain. "You... you honestly don't know what you did to me, do you?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Ireland huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Except that ye had a rough childhood, like we _all_ had, no. Enlighten me."

"You downright _abandoned _me!" England screamed, countless emotions put into those words. "That's what you did! You abandoned me, _a newborn nation_, in the woods to survive on my own! Tell me you at least realise how _cruel_ that was!" Ireland only narrowed his eyes. Ofcourse he knew that! He felt bad about having his brother growing up alone, he really did! But at the moment, he just couldn't care. He was too angry right now to even respond to this, which was the last little push England needed to explode in rage. "And yes! Yes, I _did _manage on my own, but have you ever thought about how hard it was? First I was all alone for _so_ long, then Rome came around, claiming he was my father then stabbing me and leaving me in the woods for dead! He has terrorised me and hurt me for countless years, and then he, the only family I knew despite him being such a monster, disappeared forever! And then the vikings, trying to burn me at a stake! I_ screamed _for help, for _you_! But no matter how much I screamed, no matter how much I begged and prayed and _burned_, _none of you came!_ Not you, not Wales, not Scotland! No one! And France! Gods, do you even know _half_ of what he's done to me, _not_ recorded in any fucking history book? Yeah, _'fucking'_ is _exactly_ the right word to use, actually! Ofcourse I kicked his bloody arse for it, but don't you think it would have been nice if I had my older brothers around to help me?" By now, tears were rolling down his face in great numbers, and he gritted his teeth to prevent sobs from escaping his throat. "Still curious why I became a pirate and fought all those wars? I'll tell you _exactly_ why I did it! I did it, all those stupid, reckless, dangerous things, _because_ they were dangerous! Every war I fought, I hoped it would be the last! No one would miss me when I was gone, anyway, the world had only tried to break me so far! Everything and everyone I had met had only tried to _break_ me like I was made of glass, and you know what? _They succeeded._ I _was_ broken, and I still am!"

"And what does this have to do with us?" Ireland asked, no anger in his voice anymore now. He was too shocked with this sudden outburst to still be angry. England trembled where he stood, his eyes bloodshot from all the tears pricking in their corners before making their way down his face, slowly, one by one, dripping onto the ground at his feet. "You could have _cared_. You could have been there, to catch me as I fell, to give me the feeling that I _wasn't all alone._ That despite everything, I still had my brothers who would be there for me. I have spend my first _centuries_ wanting nothing more than to die. I have tried to commit suicide countless times! And you could have spared me all that. _If only you had cared about me._" England looked at Ireland for a moment longer before closing his eyes, trying to wipe away the seemingly endless stream of tears with the back of his hand, then turning around and quickly leaving the room, slamming the door shut behind him, leaving his two brothers to stare after him, the third just looking in the direction of the door, all with guilt in their eyes. "I-I had no idea..." Wales stammered, tears in his eyes. "I-I'm so sorry... Arthur..." He then shook his head and quickly went after him.

A silence followed, and Ireland just stared at Scotland. They were the most guilty of all this, as they had been old enough to take care of their little brother like they did for Wales, and most likely, neither of them had ever imagined just what it had done to the youngest in their family. "It's true, isn't it, Al...?" Ireland sighed eventually. "We really never cared about him at that time... Even before he was born..." Memories began to flood the Irishman's mind, as he realised he had indeed hated England before the young lad had even seen the light of day for the first time.

* * *

Ireland and Scotland both ran back to the clearing they called home, carrying armsfull of berries and nuts. "I'm telling you, _dearthair,_" Ireland said to his little brother, who had a hard time keeping up with the young teenager on his short, six-year-old's legs. "You should drop the little red ones. They're poison!" The little Scotland just huffed, his cheeks gonig red. "I-I know that by now! I made a mistake, that's all!" Ireland just looked at him over his shoulder and grinned. "I'm just trying to make sure you don't poisen mom and Cymru, Alba!" Then the two young brothers reached the place where their mother sat with her back against a tree, holding their youngest brother in her arms. The little baby was fast asleep, a content smile on his cute little face. When she spotted her two oldest sons, a smile appeared on her face. "If we didn't have you," she said softly as they halted in front of her, dropping their gathered food onto the soft grass. "The three of us would have starved by now. Thank you, my little hunters." She straightened herself, holding out her tiny sleeping son for either one of the two others to take him over for her. Scotland reached forward immediately and his face lit up as their mother placed his little brother in his arms. The little nation always enjoyed having Wales around, even if he was still a baby and couldn't even talk yet. Normally he would tell him complete stories of all the things he'd seen that day, but seeing as he was now asleep, he quietly went off to lay down in the grass with him asleep on his chest, enjoying the warmth of the sun. Ireland turned to Brittania, who was picking all the poisonous berries out of the pile of food with an amused smile. "You're getting paler, mum," he said softly so Scotland wouldn't hear. "And thinner. I can go out and look for food again later today, you should take all this. I mean, it's just enough for two people, anyway." But Brittania shook her head. "No, Eire. You and Alba should eat, too."

"Then you and Alba share this! I can go without food for a day!" the young teen protested as his eyes scanned his mother. Her whole body was getting thinner and thinner with the day. All but her belly, which was round and swollen, carrying yet another one of Ireland's little brothers, perhaps a sister. "You can't." Brittania smiled, ruffling her oldest son's hair. "I'll just have to make it through a few more weeks," she said softly. "So your newest sibling can be born. What happens after that is obvious already, painful as it may be. I _will_ die, Eire, nothing can stop that. Just promise me you'll take care of your little brother or sister, like you are doing for me now, too." She grabbed a handfull of brambles, thanking her son for the work he'd done for her, then begun to eat. Ireland huffed and sat down beside her, glaring at her belly. "Stop making mum sick!" he muttered to the baby inside. "You're the reason she'll die soon!"

"Eire!" Brittania exclaimed, soft enough not to let Scotland and Wales hear. "Don't say that!" But Ireland just shook his head, angry at the unborn baby for doing this to his mother. "He's practically sucking the life out of you, mum!" He protested, earning a glare from his mother who replied, "He or she isn't doing so any more than you and your little brothers did! In fact, this one is much calmer than you little rascals were, kicking me day and night!" She silenced herself when she saw the tears in her son's eyes, and she pulled him into a tight embrace. "I'm sorry, my precious boy. I'm sorry... But this baby can't help existing, even if it's killing me. You shouldn't blame him or her." She then took his hand, placing it on her belly. Almost instantly, Ireland could feel the baby inside of her squirming at his touch, and his lips almost twisted into a smile. "See?" his mother said softly. "It likes you already. It's usually much stiller than this. Sometimes I even wonder if it's still alive! Promise me you will take care of this child as well as you are taking care of your brothers after I'm gone?" Tears welled up in Ireland's eyes again, and the child swung his arms around his mother's neck, failing to bite back the sobs. Brittania hugged him back, stroking his bright ginger hair as she did. "It will be all right, sweetie," she whispered softly to him. "You are such a strong, responsible young man already, you will be just fine. I believe in you." But at that moment, Ireland just couldn't stop himself from crying, knowing he had only a few weeks left with the mother he loved so much. Brittania herself was heartbroken as well at having to leave her children behind, but it was a fate she could not change. "Oh, honey, it will be all right, I promise you. I will always be with you, I promise. I will never leave you."

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**Yup. Big brothers aren't always nice and caring. But really, what England didn't know, was that Scotland was only six (physically ofcourse) and Ireland was roughly twelve. _They_ were children, too, as became clear in the flashback. Still no excuse, though. And so, England's song, Out From Under (also by Red): "So tell me where were you, when everything fell down like thunder? I begged you to pull me through, I couldn't get out from under. You left me for dead inside my head, couldn't you see that I was still breathing? Screaming I reached for you, I couldn't get out from under!"**

**Next chapter will be full of heartbreak as well, after that it might calm down again... We'll see.**

***Name clarifications:**

**Eire - Irish for Ireland (I know it's spelled wrong, sorry. However much I want to be, I'm not Irish)**

**Alba - used to be the name for Scotland I think**

**Cymru - Welsh for Wales**

**Thank you very much for reading, I hope you liked it, and please leave a review!**


	17. Chapter 17

**For once, the chapter is less than 3,000 words. But ah well!**

**That One Guest, as usual, thank you for the review! I'm lucky enough not to know what it feels like to think no one cares about you, but I do know one thing all the brothers are having a hard time with: not being able to cry. No matter how agonised you feel, you just cannot cry and let the emotions out until they're just too much to bear. My tactic is to look up super sad music or videos or stories until I'm bawling my eyes out. But it sucks.**

**Anyway, without further ado, the next chapter! I do not own Hetalia.**

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Wales slowly walked through the hallway, quietly looking around to see where England had gone off to. He felt terrible after what his little brother had just said. He'd always wanted to know just why England seemed to hate them all so much, why he acted the way he did. Everything. He had just hoped the answer would be different. Everything there was to dislike about the youngest of the four nations, they were to blame for it all. England always seeming so distant to them, never opening up about anything, constantly being on edge around his brothers and seeming not to care at all when either of them got hurt (except when it was really bad, like what happened with Scotland)... it was all their fault. He didn't know any better than that the world was cold, cruel and lonely, for he'd never known the same warmth Wales had known growing up. And it was _their fault._

It didn't take him long to find him. He'd gone into the first empty room he could find, apparently, though Wales hadn't anticipated him going there. It was one of the two spare bedrooms the Welshman had, the only one vacant at the moment as for now at least, Ireland was occupying the other. Wales would probably kick him out the moment he recovered from his rebellion, though. They were al angry at the Irishman for betraying them like this. Scotland had already said he'd go with either one of his two younger brothers: if Ireland wanted to be independent so bad, he'd feel just how lonely that life could be. Wales agreed, but right now, he didn't really care what would happen to Ireland. First, he had to see how England was doing after his breakdown. The younger nation sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, face hidden in his hands. His shoulders were shaking, tiny tremors going through them as he tried to stiffle sobs. Wales could hear him sniffling, though, the one thing he couldn't surpress apparently.

Wales let out a soft sigh, biting his lip as he slowly and silently entered the room, closing the door behind him. He then walked forward, halting a few feet away from England, who didn't even look up. Either he hadn't noticed his brother, or he didn't care. The Welshman hesitated a little moment before saying, "Artie?" No reaction, so he tried again. "Artie, I... I'm sorry." Still no reaction, though Wales could see England was putting up even more of an effort to prevent himself from crying, so he sat down beside him now. For a moment, he wanted to lay his hand on the Englishman's shoulder, but made up his mind not to in the end. "Artie, please, talk to me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. This time, England pulled his shoulders up, the physical version of an emotional wall. "I-I've ta-talked enough..." he stammered softly, then went quiet again. Nibbling on his lip again, Wales scanned his little brother briefly with his eyes. He really was a mess right now. "You know, lil' brother," he began carefully, still not raising the volume of his voice. Quiet just seemed right. "You shouldn't bottle so many emotions up all the time. Bottles are made of glass, you know, and they can break. As yours did just now..." He sighed, wrapping an arm around England's shoulder, who stiffened at the touch. "But that wasn't nearly all, I can tell. So let those out as well, just... go ahead and do it." The only answer he got was some more sniffling and a muffled "shut up".

"You wouldn't remember it, by the way," Wales continued, just for the sake of talking to him right now. And hopefully his words would draw out the rest of his brother's bottled-up emotions, for this was going way too far. "But I really enjoyed sleeping together with you back in the day." At this, England shot him a confused sidewards glance, still not quite looking up but no longer hiding his face. Wales smiled at him. "Told you, you wouldn't remember it. I mean me sleeping on top of mom, you inside of her... it was warm and cozy, sleeping together like that. When you woke up, though, so did I. You didn't move often, but when you did, you sure liked nearly kicking your big brother off our mother. It was a bit like, 'move it, this is my spot!'" Wales smiled fondly at the memories. They were vague, as he had been just about sixteen months old when England was born, but they were there, and that is what mattered. But the smile faded again almost instantly. "I'm sorry that's practically all we ever did together back then, though... Or after you were born, for that matter. I would have liked it if it were different, as well..." At this, he felt England relax just the slightest, and Wales looked at him again. After a moment of silence, England finally spoke. "I-I blame you least, just s-so you know..." he whispered, still not looking at his brother. "I mean, th-there's such a small age d-difference between us, you were o-only a child yourself...It's C-Cearul and Allistair I don't get..." New tears welled up in his eyes, and he stiffled another sob. "I-I mean, what were they thinking w-when they l-left me like that? That's the only thi-ing I want to know... what were they thinking? _Did_ they even th-think?"

Feeling England was comfortable enough to talk about it now, Wales pulled him close and put his arms around him. And as he had hoped, his little brother let him, not trying to pull away for even so much as a second. They sat like that in silence for a while, until eventually, England quietly asked, "Dylan? Tell me... What's so hard about this...?" Wales hummed questioningly, to which the younger nation added, "Just... holding me like this. Really, what's so hard about it?" Wales' heart sank at the question, mainly because it was just _so sad._ But he shook his head slowly. "It's not hard at all, Artie," he answered, feeling almost as though he was confessing something. "I quite enjoy it, actually." Oh, he knew what would come next, he knew very well. But that was exactly what he had been aiming for.

Because finally, England let out the first sob het just _let go _instead of trying to keep it in. "T-then why...? Why has _no one _ever just held me, _ever?_ 'M n-not just talking 'bout you a-and Cearul and Allis-stair... _No one._" He now put his arms around Wales as well, holding onto him tightly. "N-not my poor excuse of a f-father, not m-my half-brothers on the ma-mainland... If I had any friends to s-speak of, neither would they've ever c-considered putting their arms around me f-for sure... The first r-real hug I ever rec-received was from Am-America, of all people! But I s-suppose that's b-because I was pretty much his father at the ti-time..." At this point, Wales was sure he himself would just break down and cry as well, given a few minutes. But not in front of England, not right now. Because right now was _his _moment. "Ha-have you any idea what tr-true loneliness feels like, Dylan?" England went on, his voice quivering as he spoke. "That's when you have the whole world around you, and still feel utterly alone... _That_ is loneliness. All the rest only re-resembles it..." After that, a tiny, soft wail came over his lips, and Wales slightly tightened the embrace, stroking his younger brother through his hair with one hand as he _finally _truly cried for the first time in years.

* * *

Ireland lay back down with a sigh, which was cut short when another wave of pain passed through his body, and he stiffened until it passed again. "Say, Al, what day is it now?" he asked softly, just for the sake of talking. The silence was unbearable. The Scot shrugged. "Still Monday, I s'pose. Perhaps Tuesday already, but that'd be by a few minutes..." he said, after which the silence returned with a vengeance. Ofcourse Ireland had noticed how strained his younger brother's voice sounded, how tense he looked just sitting there, a few meters away from him. He sighed again. "Look, lad, 'bout me not makin' it home in time earlier... I'm sorry 'bout that. I didn't mean t'make ye worry or anythin'. I hope yer not too angry...?"

But Scotland only scoffed. "Oh, I'm angry, all right! Just not 'bout that, seein' as Dylan was there an' we... had a good conversation..." He fell silent again for a moment as he narrowed his blind eyes, directing them at Ireland, actually managing to almost look him in the eyes. "What I'm angry about, is how you had the guts to do some'in like this! I mean, _how dare you?_ You're not the only one who wants ta be independent, y'know! But I would ne'er do some'in like this!" After a moment, he let his shoulders hang, and he looked away again. "Not like I'm ever becoming independent, what with this bloody disability I have now..." Ireland wanted to say something to this, reassure him that it wouldn't be permanent, but he could never be sure. Also, he knew, it was about the last thing he had to talk about now, if he wanted to avoid any teeth getting smashed out of his mouth or his nose being broken. Clearly Scotland wasn't up to talking right now, at least not about that. So instead, he just said, "I did this, _dearthair, _because I _had _to. I-"

"And ye do realise ye could kill us all if this gets out o'hand, aye?" his younger brother interrupted him, a nasty edge to his voice. Unconsciously, Ireland clenched his hands into fists as he replied, his voice barely above a whisper, "And if I didn't do this at all... I would die." This was the first time he admitted this, but it had been in the back of his mind for years and years, even before the rising even came into his people's minds. Scotland blinked for a moment, surprised by this, but remained quiet to let his brother speak. "If I don't become independent soon, Al, I will die," the Irishman continued, swallowing a lump in his throat. Hard as it was to admit, it was the bloody truth, a complete certainty. "I ain't part of Great Britain, I'm just... a colony. A colony with an honorary spot in the name o'this godforsaken Empire. I'm not connected t'Sasana like ye, or like Dylan! I'm just... me. _Beidh mé bás_. My people are becoming mixed, Allistair! With ye an' Dylan, that's not so much a problem, as yer part o'Great Britain, but I'm not!" He was shaking uncontrollably now as he finally admitted all this, not just to his brother but also to himself, as he had not wanted to think about any of it before. "I need to become _me_ again, or I will just _céimnithe_! Fade away like I ne'er existed in the first place, an' I... By God, Allistair, I don't want to die!"

"So yer sayin'," Scotland began quietly, looking down as he got up, slowly walking over to his brother's bedside. "Ye would rather put all our lives at stake, than die yerself?"

"Yes! Oh, for God's sake, _yes!_" Ireland exclaimed as he began to shake even more, his breath caught in his throat. "For _once_ in my life, Allistair, let me do some'in for _me!_ I always take everyone into consideration, an' I'm _sick _of it! I ain't doin' this fer my people, I'm doin' this _fer me_." His voice quivered as he raised it even more. "An' just let me go through with it, 'cause I _DON'T WANT TO DIE!_" Then, suddenly, Scotland reached forward and put his hands on his brother's arm, firm but gentle. He didn't even have to say anything for Ireland to calm down again just the slightest. "I don't _want_ to leave you, Allistair," the Irishman whispered, closing his eyes. "Or Dylan, for that matter. Hell, I don't even want to leave Sasana behind! But _please_, realise that, in order for me to remain by your sides... I have to leave." Scotland now let his shoulders hang, knowing deep down that Ireland was telling the truth about this. He _was_ dying, decades though it might take, and only true independence would prevent that. "I made a promise to mum, lad," Ireland now whispered, sighing for a moment before continuing, "I promised her I'd take care o'you all. I broke my promise once, an' I ain't doin' it again. I_ will_ be there for you, even if it means I have to betray you all first." Then, his lips twisted into a tiny smile, which somehow, Scotland just _knew _even despite not seeing it, as the Irishman added, "And, o'course... I just don't want to die."

* * *

In Dublin, things were chaotic, getting out of hand, and already, plenty of blood had been spilled. As he was hoisting the green flag of the Irish Republic at the City Hall at 3:15 pm, Sean Connolly was shot in the head by two Army marksmen. He had been the first of the rebels to kill, and also the first to be killed, his death a quick one. He had died much the way he had wanted to. Once he had said, "Under this flag only will I serve. Under this flag, if need be, I will die." And now he lay on the pavement, a hole in his head, his blood flowing out onto the flag that lay beneath him. And it was with that same flag that his body was soon covered.

With all the panic and chaos in the city, citizens soon began looting. It only served to make the chaos even greater, violence even more frequent that day. It seemed the entire city had lost rule and reason.

The rebels forces had failed to take Dublin Castle, though it had been only lightly defended. From Trinity College, Unionist students had joined the battle against the rebels.

For England, too, there came trouble. In the early hours of Tuesday morning, a German fleet had advanced on the town of Lowestoft, now five miles off the coast as they bombarded the city. Many citizens were wounded or killed that night. As was to be expected, the Germans were taking advantage of the Irish rising by attacking England in the middle of it. An invasion was not to be expected, however, but neither had the rising in Ireland been. They couldn't be cautious enough about it.

At roughly 4:30 am, British troops swarmed the City Hall, which was still a stronghold of the rebel forces, and soon took it and the buildings around it. Only nine people, part of the group that was led by Sean Connolly only the day before, had been defending it, surprising the Brits, who had expected far more people. Even more of a surprise came when a woman, Kathleen Lynn, stepped forward from the small group of rebels. She was a captain in the Volunteers and s doctor, and had been the one to tend to Sean's body before telling another member of the troops, John O'Reilly, he was to take over now their commander was dead. Knowing this man also hadn't survived to see the dawn of Tuesday, Kathleen surrendered in name of this rebel squad.

The night of Monday to Tuesday left both the oldest and the youngest of the Celtic brothers in pure agony, wishing it all to be over soon. Their prayers were not heard, nor were those of anyone in Dublin or throughout the rest of Ireland, Irish or British. The rest of Tuesday was no more peaceful than the night had been, Wednesday consisted only of battle. It was Thursday when hell broke lose.

The GPO was still the HQ of the rebels, and the British forces were struggling to take it. It was well-defended, but the Brits managed to make one critic shot. He had just led some of his men to an alley in Abbey Street and sent them away to fight somewhere else, when James Connolly was shot in the left ankle. He was unconscious for just a moment, then had to crawl back to the GPO, leaving a trail of blood. His shin was shattered, pieces of the bone sticking out of his skin. As soon as he reached the GPO, he was taken care off. He could only be given a small amount of chloroform, as there just wasn't enough to go on anymore. In the end, they managed to find some proper painkillers for him. But this was a hard blow for the rebels: they had lost one of their leaders.

But even with this, the rising was by far not over. Fighting lasted days and days, the hospitals crowded with wounded and dead, both rebel and British, even innocent citizens. There was a great number of casualties on both sides before finally, on Saturday April 29, Patrick Pearse surrendered on behalf of all the rebels.

After nearly a week of bloodshed, the rising of 1916 was finally over. All the rebel leaders who had signed the Proclamation earlier that week were given the death sentence, and were to be shot on the first days of May.

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**I had wanted to describe the rising in more detail, but it was just too chaotic for me to follow, and I just cannot write about things I do not understand. So sorry for that. I hope it was still good, though.**

**Thank you for reading, and please leave a review!**


	18. Chapter 18

**Sorry for the very short chapter! I promise, the next one will be longer again. And it will be there soon, as I have a week off of school, Autumn holidays... gotta love 'em.**

**Also, personally, I don't think this chapter is that great... But look! I made cover art XD**

**Anyways, once again, thanks for the review, That One Guest. And no, you're not the world's greatest masochist for reading this. There's far worse stuff! ;)**

**Well, here's the latest chapter!**

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_"It's not your fault that we haven't yet won a Republic. The other side had more men, better arms, that's all. Believe me, your work will tell some day. There will come a time when Irish people will look back on this Easter week and you, each one of you, will be honoured."_

_-Sean McDermott_

Ireland returned to Dublin on May 2, having heard the leaders of the rising were currently being held in Kilmainhaim Gaol. All but Connolly, who was in hospital, hurt too badly to go anywhere else. He'd visit him later. Guards wouldn't even let him near the cell his people were in, and he was losing his temper with them. "Do you _honestly _want to get into a fight with Ireland himself?" he roared, ready to just grab their weapons and shoot them through the heads like they had probably done to his people only a few days ago. "Because what ye've seen o'me people last week, _I_ have in me, too, immortality added! Now _move_ an' let me talk to them!" England came up behind him at this, doing a good job at hiding the slight limp he had due to bruising around his left hip. The rising mixed with the attacks of the Germans hadn't left him without wounds. Ireland himself had a long, thin and thankfully shallow cut over his chest, crossing his heart. Just one look at it had assured him it would grow to be a scar he'd keep for the rest of his life, but it was a scar he would be proud of one day. It was what showed his struggle for independence, the price he had to pay for the freedom he would soon get.

"Let him through, men," England ordered the two Brits, who shot eachother a confused glance. "He has my permission to see the prisoners. Also, what he says is true: you don't want to pick a fight with this man." Silent, the two guards nodded and stepped aside, and Ireland looked over his shoulder at his younger brother, who just narrowed his emerald eyes at him. There was absolutely no love lost between the two anymore. That they were here together was strictly for business reasons. "Well, go on, then," England urged his older brother on with a nod. "If you want to talk to them, I suggest you do so now. The first three, Pearse, Clarke and MacDonagh, are to be executed at dawn tomorrow." Without a word, Ireland went off. The first cell he came by contained Tom Clarke, Willie Pearse, who was Patrick Pearse's younger brother, and Liam O'Brian. He didn't know Liam personally, he'd seen Willie only once or twice over the past year. But Tom came to the steel bars almost immediately, greeting his nation. "Ah, I knew 'twas you I heard," he said with a grin. "Screamin' at 'em Brits... I salute you, Cearul! Only few can do that without gettin' beaten to a pulp." Ireland shrugged, confessing, "I would've been, had it not been for England stepping in." He clenched his hands into fists and muttered, "I would've prefered gettin' beaten or shot, though."

"So you're Ireland, hm?" Liam asked from where he sat, looking up at his nation curiously. Ireland only nodded. "Well, I'm sorry we failed to make you a Republic," the human then said, to which Ireland shook his head. "No! _I'm_ sorry. I should've been there to help." Old Tom stuck his hand through the bars and placed it on Ireland's shoulder, saying, "No, lad. You said yourself, you wouldn't even have been able to fight. I take it you're hurt even not having been in Dublin?" Frustrated, Ireland bit his bottom lip for a moment, which was all the answer Tom needed. "But I could've done _something_," Ireland muttered, feeling ashamed. "Not that we wouldn't have lost, anyway."

"We didn't lose," Willie suddenly interrupted him, drawing the attention of the three men. "We fought. Not fighting at all is to lose. To fight is to win. _We've won_, we just haven't won a Republic." Ireland stared at him for a moment, a smile then creeping onto his face, tiny but there. "That's what your brother would say, William," the nation said, to which the human nodded, confessing, "Well, they _are_ his words. And you should see him, as well. We... We will be fine, even with what's coming." Ireland's heart sank with shame. Only days ago, he had told his little brother that he didn't want to die, panicked about it even, and here he was, facing his people. And these humans, who were weaker creatures than nations in _any _way, accepted their fate just like that. He felt weak at that moment, undeserving even of being a nation. He took a step away from the steel bars, making up his mind in that moment. He straightened his back, folding one arm behind it. The other, he brought to the side of his head, saluting the men. It was the one sign of deepest respect he could still give them. Today, it was not the people who respected their nation from the bottom of their hearts. It was the nation who respected his people for their strength and bravery and will to fight on.

* * *

Next he visited Patrick Pearse, who was just as calm as the other three. His face was pale, though, with dark circles under his eyes. But he smiled as Ireland approached him. "You're looking well," he said, scanning his nation with his eyes. "Considering what we did to you." But Ireland shook his head, halting in front the human, gripping the bars of his cell. "The only thing you did to me," he began, lookinhg the man straight in the eyes. "Is save my life, Padraig. I could never thank you enough for everything you've done for me." But Pearse shook his head and pointed at Ireland's chest. Confused, the nation looked down, letting out a soft "oh" as he saw tiny bloodstains around his heart. The wound had reopened again partially, which it did rather often a day. Honestly, he wasn't at all surprised, but it sure did nothing to help his point. "We've hurt you," Pearse said, returning his nation the same stare he had been given. "And have no results to show yet. As for now, we've done nothing for you yet but cause pain and chaos, and I'm sorry for that." Ireland was about to protest, but the human continued without giving him the chance to speak. "However, the effects of this week will be visible for decades -if not centuries- to come, I'm sure. Though not by our hand, you w_ill _be made into a Republic, _Éire_._ Geallaim duit go_. _Mbeidh Saol go mbeadh brí arís_, _ní díreach ar do shon, ach do na hÉireannaigh_." Ireland nodded, convinced the man's words would become truth one day. One day, however far away. This human, too, he saluted, saying, "_Beidh tú a onóir do tsíoraíocht_, _Padraig._"

* * *

When he got home, he did one thing he hadn't done in years and years. Like this, he had never even done it ever before. He sat down at his desk, ignored the remains of the pain that plagued him, grabbed paper, a pen and _wrote._ He just wrote and kept writing, no official documents, no letters, just _something._

_Once again I am afraid I cannot uphold the promises I made to my family. I cannot be there for them forever, I cannot remain by their side and protect them. But... I do not mind. No one can be by anyone's side for eternity, simply because there is no such thing as eternity. I have hereby decided that my life, like that of everyone else, is only temporary. And I'm going to make the most of it, I will fight for it.__ It is my life, and no one can take it._

_I remember the lush green forests I used the live in, the seemingly endless wilderness and the hills and the crashing waves at the coast. The sun shining bright and the wind caressing my skin as it blew past. Peaceful days they were, but now they're gone. Ripped away from me, torn like thin paper. My land has been destroyed, my people have been opressed and my life has been destroyed._

_But no matter what, I shall always keep fighting. The world may crumble at my feet, I will always remain standing. The light may fade before my eyes, I shall always keep reaching. Everyone around me may die, but I will always keep breathing. My last breath shall not be before I've spread the wings of freedom and flown out of the cage that has been my life._

_Even if I lose everyone I love, my heart will keep beating._

_Even if all hope is lost, I will keep wishing._

_Even if I lose it all, I will keep fighting for what is mine._

_Even if I'm the last of my kind, I will keep defending my kin._

_I will never be anything than what I am now, and have always been._

_I am Irish. And hell, will I fight to regain what is lost._

_The lush green of the forests, the white of the waves crashing about, the brown of the rocks along my coast. I will regain what is lost, and I will keep it forever within my reach from here on._

_Never mind the pain, caused and received. Never mind the fear, inside and outside. Never mind the blood, rushing and spilling. Never mind the souls, wandering and lost. It will all be worth it one day._

_Not one drop of blood will be in vain._

_It shall be the opressor's bane._

_Let them take it, drink it all,_

_Let them watch their kingdom fall._

_All that was our sacrifice,_

_Given throughout time,_

_Will make a new kingdom rise,_

_And it will be forever mine._

_I will not let anyone take what belongs to me,_

_Enemy, friend or family though they might be._

_I will strive for a better future,_

_No one will be left behind,_

_Even if I am the last of my kind._

And the following days, one by one, the rebels fell to the ground, never to rise again. Their hearts stopped beating, but Ireland's only beat faster with the same strength theirs had. He would, without fail, become a Republic like they had wanted him to. Their wish would be fulfilled, even if they were no longer there to witness it. And he would never give up.

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**And this concludes the rising part... Next up is the last few years of WWI, followed by the Irish Revolution, establishment of Northern Ireland, and then one or few extra chapters.**


	19. Chapter 19

**See? Told you it would be long XD**

**Thanks for another great review, That One Guest! They make me really happy everytime I read them! And I am going easy on myself, don't worry. Sometimes I just feel like writing and feel like writing a lot. Which I did today, writing this huge thing in nearly one go.**

***Warning: lots of sadness that is probably the saddest thing yet. Would it help if I tell the date? July 1, 1916...***

**I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

"Hey, Irish dude," came a familiar and annoying voice over the phone. Ireland sighed and just let America talk. "Look, I heard what happened, with your rising and all that stuff. Is it true that the rebel leaders were shot?" Ireland sighed again, really not in the mood to talk about it all right now. "Yes, 'tis true," he confirmed, exhaustion clearly sounding through in his voice. He was so tired after everything that had happened. "Well then," America went on, for once sounding serious. "I'm coming over to your place in a few days, all right? Well, no, to England's place actually, and you should come too. We're going to have a good talk about this, the three of us." Ireland gritted his teeth in anger. That bloody American should stay out of business that isn't his! "Execution like that is a huge no-no these days! Of course, so is betraying your family at a crucial time like this. So, dude, be there." Ireland muttered an incomprehensible response, which America seemed to be okay with, because he just hung up, ending the conversation with that.

Ireland just laid down on his couch after that, pressing a hand to his stomach, which was tightening painfully. He was _so _hungry. Because of the rising, food had gotten a little scarce around these parts. Though it wasn't quite as bad as Black '47 had been, it sure wasn't comfortable. Being the near immortal creature he was, he let his people eat first under all circumstances, however much it might hurt him sometimes. On top of the food trouble, there was a bad economy hanging over his head as well, and he currently had a light fever, causing him to feel light headed and shiver with cold. But on top of everything, he was _alone._ Scotland had gone with England and Wales didn't even pick up the phone when he called. For the first time in centuries he was truly alone, and that hurt most of all. "But it is what I have to get used to," he told himself softly. "If I become independent, I have to learn to be alone again. 'S that simple." Suddenly the pain in his empty stomach got even worse, and he curled up slightly, clenching his jaws tightly. _This _wasn't the hunger, he knew for sure. But what in the world was it, then?

* * *

"So where is the window?" England asked his older brother, who had his blind eyes focused in front of him. There was a moment of hesitation before Scotland answered, "To, er... to my right, o'er there." He pointed as he spoke, and his answer warmed England's heart. That was the third thing he had gotten right! "Well, I must say," he began, a smile growing on his face. The first genuine smile he'd had in months, if not a year. "This calls for a celebration! Allistair, I am hereby _positive_ that you are beginning to see again." Scotland's face lit up as his little brother said this. It was true, he could distinguish light from dark again. He still had no sense of colour or shape, but he could tell wether it was day or night and where the sources of light in the room were, as he had just done.

The Scot leaned forward and, in his joy, put his arms around his little brother, who immediately relaxed at this and returned the embrace. When they got here a few weeks ago, the two had a good, long conversation, resulting in Scotland apologising for all the things he had never done to help, and England in turn apologised for all the pain he had caused his brother in his rage over the centuries. They had decided to start again, and start well this time. So far, it really did go well. They enjoyed eachother's company and spent every evening talking together.

Suddenly, England's muscles tightened, his whole body going tense, and he let out a hiss of pain. Scotland immediately let go of him again, though still holding him by the shoulders. "Something wrong, lad?" he asked, worried, as he narrowed his eyes. There was a moment of silence, but he felt England's shoulder muscles tightening and relaxing again in turn in a way that told him he was shaking his head. "N-no, it's just..." his voice quivered as he spoke, pain evident in it, stating quite the opposite of his words. "It's just that stomach ache again... it's getting worse." He shivered as he drew in a shaky breath that caught in his throat. He couldn't breathe in too deeply without the pain growing ten times worse. Scotland nibbled his lip a bit, wondering what to do now. Eventually he said, "Y'know, Artie, may sound stupid, but perhaps you should just take a bath? It is certain to help you relax, and the warmth might help ease that pain..." He trailed off, knowing very well how ridiculous that probably sounded. But to his surprise, England nodded. "Y-yes, perhaps... Thanks, Al, I'll just...nnng... go do that now..." The Scot then felt his brother beginning to move again, and he let go completely. He never liked doing that, even after a year. It felt like he was letting go of the one thing connecting him to the world beyond the darkness. "I hope 't helps, wee brother," he called after England as he heard his footsteps fade away on the stairs. He then got to his feet, carefully maneuvering around the coffee table and making his way to the bookshelf. There were two books in braille there, and he was still practicing to read that. Though hopefully, soon, he wouldn't even need it anymore. Soon enough, he would see again.

* * *

England let his bathtub fill up slowly with steaming water, and as he waited, he pressed a hand to his stomach and took a few deep breaths. The pain was really bad, though still easily bearable. If, of course, it would subside soon. He knew for a fact he couldn't take this for hours on end without going crazy. When he felt the bath was nearly full enough, he stripped of his clothes and got into it. It burned at first, and he took a sharp breath, but within seconds his skin was used to the high temperature of the water and he could relax again. Scotland had been right of course, the warmth really did help ease his stomach ache, giving him some time to think. Perhaps he should help out Ireland on the food matter going on right now, just a sign of good will. Then again, maybe he shouldn't, seeing as his brother clearly didn't want to see him anymore after the executions. But honestly, England hadn't ordered those, his king had. He himself had been appalled at finding out one of his knights, Sir Roger Casement, who had been working on the rising from Germany, was to be hanged for his treachery after being stripped of his knighthood. Execution wasn't _that _abnormal, death by hanging _was_ these days. Then there was the Great War that was still raging on the mainland. He wondered when it would finally end, and who would win in the end. He was determined not to let Germany and Austria-Hungary win, that was for sure. But they would need help at this rate. Things weren't exactly looking bright for the Allied Forces. The Central Powers were just that much stronger. "But right now," he mumbled under his breath, letting out a sigh as he slipped deeper into the warm water. It now reached his chin. "I should just do as Scotland told me and _relax_ a bit. Those constant nerves aren't healthy.

But suddenly, the pain in his abdomen was back with a vengeance, even worse than before, and he gripped the edges of the bath tightly between his fingers. "For Heaven's sake!" he exclaimed from inbetween clenched jaws, shutting his eyes tight, trying to block out the pain and breathe again. "I know yesterday's supper was burnt, but- _Agh!_" When the jolt of the strongest pain yet left, he looked down as he felt familiar -and terrifying- stinging. From just under his ribs, a cloud of red welled up, dying the bath's water crimson. This _definitely _wasn't because of his terrible cooking, that was for sure. "Bloody hell," he muttered, slowly and carefully getting to his feet, climbing out of the bath again. It was a waste of water, having used it for only ten minutes at most, but he wasn't about to bathe in his own blood. Nor bleed out, mind you. He just needed to find some bandages now, and quickly too. Hell, who cared if he had to walk around his house naked for now to do so, the only other person here was blind. But he didn't even make it as far as the cupboard to get a towel before the pain struck again, getting worse with the second, and he collapsed onto the cold tiles. A moan escaped his lips, and he pushed himself up with his elbows. Looking down he saw his blood spilling onto the floor rapidly, and he knew he needed help. He opened his mouth to call Scotland, but he convulsed, coughing harshly instead. He clasped a hand over his mouth, and blood dripped from his fingertips by the time the coughing ended. _He really needed help now._ "A-Allistair!" he called out, surprised by the rasping of his voice. "Brother? I-I could really use some help here!" Then even his arms slipped out from under him, and he smacked onto the floor once again, feeling the pool of blood had grown from his hips up to his chest, and he prayed that Scotland had heard him and would be here in time.

* * *

Scotland was already making his way up the stairs. He'd heard a dull thump followed shortly by his little brother's voice calling out to him. Judging by those sounds, anything could've happened. Perhaps England had been clumsy enough to slip and break something, but the pain in Scotland's own abdomen told him there was something else going on. Something that had to do with the Great War. "Artie?" he called by the time he reached the top of the stairs, digging in his mind to remember which way the bathroom was. Of course he knew very well, but in his panicked mind, it just wouldn't come to him. "Arthur, what happened?" Then he remembered: _one step to the front, four steps to the left._ He did exactly as his mind told him, and when he reached out he found the doorknob, grateful that England had at least not locked the door. He opened it quickly, and took two steps inside before he asked again, "Artie...?" There was a soft moan, followed by a weak "H-here..." as he felt trembling fingertips against his ankle. He kneeled down instantly, reaching forward until his fingers touched bare, wet skin. Left shoulder, backside, he could tell from touch. "Arthur? What's wrong, lad?" he asked, unable to mask the fear in his voice. Next came a soft, wet cough, and England answered, "Well... J-just a cut..." Scotland's heart sank, and he traced his hand down his brother's back slowly, applying just the slightest bit of pressure. When he got to his lower back, England let out a hiss at this pressure, and Scotland carefully rolled him onto his back, moving his hand to England's abdomen at the same height. There, his fingers met with a warm, sticky liquid and wet, soft flesh. The younger nation let out another soft moan at this, and Scotland retracted his hand again. He hadn't meant to actually put his fingertips _into _the wound, that was for sure. "T-that's not 'just a cut', laddie," he said softly, his voice hoarse with fear as he spoke, remembering how broad the wound had felt and how long it was. It was deep as well.

"J-just help me stop the bleeding, please," England rasped, jolting his brother out of his worried trance, who then got to his feet again. "R-right," he answered, looking around. The window was in front of him, shining light into the room, he could tell that much. That meant the cupboard was somewhere to his right. But suddenly he wasn't so sure anymore, and he added, "Ye have to give me directions, Artie." There was a short pause before England's voice came again, weak and soft. "'Bout three steps to your right... second shelf from top..." he told his brother, who followed the directions he gave to the dot. Soon, his fingers brushed against soft cloth, and England rasped, "Right the- _AGH!_" At this exclamation of pure agony, Scotland's heart raced even faster, and he grabbed a handful of the cloth, not caring how many towels he had in his hand now. It was one at least, and that mattered most. "A-Allistair, please _hurry_!" came England's agonised voice, tearing at his older brother's heart. He crashed down on his knees beside him, feeling warm liquid seep into his trousers, and his stomach did a somersault as he realised he was sitting in a pool of his brother's blood. He then reached down with one hand again, and he placed it on what felt like England's chest. The bleeding nation was now gasping for breath, and he softly forced "Al-Allis-stair..." over his lips. Scotland leaned in a little closer and whispered back, "I'm here, Artie. I'm here." Then he traced his hand down, over his brother's midriff until his fingers reached the cut again, and he quickly pressed one of the towels down on it, holding it firmly in place with both hands. "You're going to be fine now, little brother," he said hurriedly, trying not to choke on the lump in his throat and forcing his heart to beat slower again.

"I... doubt it..." England whispered back, his voice too weak by now to go any louder. "But t-thank you, Al..." Enraged by this, Scotland turned his eyes in the direction of England's voice, looking him nearly in the eyes as tears welled up in his own. "If ye think I'll let ye die-!" But England's soft whisper interrupted him. "Al..." Just hearing this, Scotland went silent again, listening intently to what his brother had to say. " 's Cold..." England whispered, a shiver clear in his voice. "Really... cold..." Then Scotland realised his little brother wasn't wearing anything as he lay there, on the cold tiles of his bathroom floor, bleeding out. On top of that, he was still wet as well. He must be freezing. He grabbed the other towels he had taken with him, which turned out to be two, putting one over England's hip and thighs, and placing the other over his chest and shoulders. He then went back to putting pressure on the wound, his thoughts overwhelming him with fear. _This isn't good, _a voice whispered in the back of his mind, a voice he tried his best to block out. _At this rate, he'll-_ Suddenly, he heard England's raspy breaths fade away into silence, and with trembling fingers he reached for his brother's throat, pressing his fingertips against the artery. The soft _tick-tick...tick-tick..._ of England's heartbeat was slowing down and growing weaker, and panic gripped Scotland's heart as he realised what was going on. _NO!_ He tried to do _something, _but everything happened too fast for him to react now. The heartbeats were growing even weaker, even slower. Eventually it gave just one last dull thump, and it stopped completely.

At that moment, time seemed to freeze to Scotland, and the last remnants of the world slipped from under his feet. _Arthur..._ his thoughts came, slow, soft and uncomprehending. _Little... brother?...No... He's... dead?_ He didn't want to believe it, but no matter how many seconds he waited, the tapping against his fingers didn't return, nor did the raspy intakes of air, and he _knew_ his little brother was gone. The numbness suddenly faded and made way for sheer anger. _I won't let you..._ he thought. _I won't let you!_ "I WON'T LET YOU!" His hands crashed down on his little brother's chest, pumping his heart for him as he screamed again. "GODDAMNIT ARTIE!" After thirty pumps, he put one hand on England's chin, softly pulling his mouth open, pinching his nose shut with the other as he placed his lips over his brother's, breathing air into his lungs. "HOW DARE YOU!" He yelled at him between two breaths. "Think ye can just _die _like that..." He smashed his hands onto the ground beside his brother's head now, blood splashing up against his wrists as he did so, and leaned over him as he shrieked, "...AND _GIVE UP, _DO YE?!" His hands went back to pumping instantly, and he went on, "But ye know what? Ye can't!" _21, 22, 23, 24._ "Not while I'm still here!" _27, 28, 29, 30._ He put his mouth over England's again and breathed, again talking between the breaths. "Not while I... still have yet... to see ye again!" On auto-pilot now, his hands went back to his brother's chest again, ready for a third round of pumping. _1, 2, 3, 4, 5..._ But suddenly, there was a soft gasp in the room, and he felt a weak but steady thumping under his hands again. More breaths followed, shaky and uneven, but there.

He started shaking uncontrollably now, tears of relief streaming down his face as his lips twisted into a smile. "Welcome back, laddie..." he whispered. "W-welcome back..." A sob then made its way over his lips, followed by another one and yet another one. He grabbed England by the shoulders and hauled his limp body up, holding it against his chest. He was so relieved when he felt air being exhaled against his shoulder, and felt his pulse beneath his fingers as he placed them against his younger brother's artery again. Then a wail tore from his throat, holding all the terror and panic and pain he'd felt over the past few minutes. Crying out, he hugged his unconscious brother tightly, careful not to hurt him further. _I love you, little brother, _he told him in silence, burying his face in his dripping blonde hair. _I love you, I love you so much._ He tilted his head, placing a soft kiss on England's cheek. _Don't ever leave me again._

* * *

Wales arrived at England's house around noon, America with him. They had gotten there at the same time, and after a short lecture from the older nation that America should really try not to piss England off right now, they went inside. Neither England or Scotland was in the living room, so Wales just called out for them, "Arthur? Al, you there? I have America with me, for that appointment we had together. Cearul ain't here yet, though." There was no immediate answer, but after a few seconds he heard some sniffling from upstairs, followed by Scotland's voice, quivering with fear. It was obvious he was crying. "D-Dylan! Y-ye 'ave to g-get up here, qui-quickly!" Without even so much as looking at the American beside him, Wales sped off, ran up the stairs and just followed the sound. It led him to the bathroom, and he froze with shock at what he saw. The tiles, usually black, glistened crimson. In the middle of the room sat Scotland, holding onto the limp body of England. The only thing covering his body were three towels, one bloodstained. Both Scotland and England were covered in blood, and the former was trying to bite back the tears that made their way down his face in great numbers. "Whoa! W-what happened here?!" America suddenly exclaimed, walking into the room behind Wales.

"T-the-the w-war..." Scotland stammered, pulling England even closer. "I-it's t-take-ken a turn f-for the w-worse... Artie..." He wanted to say more, but a sob made it past his lips. Wales got on his knees before him, holding out his hands to take England from his older brother's arms, but the Scot protested loudly against this. "NO!" he yelled suddenly, and Wales flinched. "I-I'm not letting him go a-again!" Panic gripped Wales' heart, but he forced his heart to remain calm. "It's okay, Al," he said softly to his older brother, who was clearly in shock after what happened. "It's okay, I promise. Just let me see Arthur, all right?" He then turned to America, who was staring at the scene before him with a horror-stricken expression. "You might as well make yourself useful, Alfred," Wales said quickly before ordering him to get bandages. "Kitchen cupboard, you should be able to find it."

"R-right!" the American said before running off again, giving Wales the space to deal with his brother now. "Allistair, I _need _to see England now," he said softly but ordering. "Otherwise I can't help." Scotland's grip on his little brother slackened just the slightest, but he kept on trembling and sobbing, and Wales just didn't know what to do anymore. "Pl-please just tell me I'm n-not imag-gining it..." Scotland whispered, to which Wales placed a hand on his shoulder, inquiring, "Imagining what, Al?" It took a few seconds of stifled sobs before there came an answer. "H-his p-pulse..." Instantly, Wales pressed his fingers against England's neck, feeling a reassuring tapping against them. He sighed in relief, though why he didn't quite understand. "It's there, Al," he said, trying to sound as calm as he possibly could in this situation. "Not exactly strong, but his heart is beating rythmically. Now hand him to me, then I can help him." Finally, Scotland seemed just about calm enough to do this. Very carefully, he held out England's limp body for Wales to take, the Welshman placing his younger brother on his lap with the same caution. He looked so vulnerable and breakable right now. As if he would shatter if he fell. Reluctantly, Wales pulled the bloodstained towel from his brother's abdomen, being greeted by the sight of a deep cut that went over the whole width of his body, and he felt bile rising in his throat just looking at it. Swallowing this, he saw America reënter the bathroom, holding armfuls of bandages.

"Wrap it tightly around this cut," Wales ordered him immediately, and the young nation did as he was told without hesitation for once in his life. "I put some disinfectant on it downstairs," he said softly as he worked. "I-I hope that alright?" Wales nodded reassuringly. "Perfect decision, Alfred. Well done." A minute or two passed in silence as the two nations took care of wrapping the wound, then wrapping England in towels to keep him warm for the time being. He was freezing. Then, suddenly, Scotland whispered hoarsely, "H-he died..." Both Wales and America stared at him in pure shock as he went on. "H-he really... died... I-I had to p-perform CPR o-on him an' he... he was _gone_, Dylan! His heart just _stopped_!" Wales let this sink in for a moment before placing a hand on his shoulder, whispering to him, "Go get Arthur into his bed. Carefully, and make sure he is warm enough. We need to get him back on temperature." America nodded, gently picked up his former guardian and silently went off with him.

"Tell me what happened, brother," Wales said softly, pulling Scotland closer and hugging him. "Please." Scotland nodded and put his arms around Wales as well before telling the story. "T-the lad said he'd had a real bad stomach ache all mornin', so when 't got real bad, I told 'im to take a bath, for o-obvious reasons. B-but after a few minutes, he called me, soundin' like he was in pain an'... _this,_" at this word, he gestured to the floor and the blood they were sitting in. "I tried to... to stop the bleeding, but his heart just gave out an' he... Oh my god, Dylan, our brother _died!_ He died right under my nose, an'-!" He broke off as Wales, too, started sobbing when he heard this. He could just _feel_ the fear his older brother had gone through, how terrified he had been that he couldn't save his little brother, and he held him tightly in his arms. "B-but you brought him back," he whispered, thanking the Heavens and all the stars and everything he could imagine. "You brought him back. He's breathing again, Allistair, his heart is beating again!" Scotland nodded, finally taking a deep breath again. Wales then got up, helping him to his feet as well. "Now let's get you into something clean," the Welshman said, looking at his brother. His trousers and part of his shirt were simply drenched in blood. Looking down, he added, "And I suppose Artie won't kill me for borrowing one of his trousers... this is just so... _ugh._"

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**I'm so, so sorry for this! I promise, _this_ is the last super sad thing for a while! It will now go back to regular sadness... *smirk***

**No really, sorry. Anyways... Thanks a lot for reading, and I hope you liked it despite the emotional stuff!**


	20. Chapter 20

**Sorry this one took so long compared to others! I have this... thing... that whenever I have a few days off school, I lose the inspiration for my stories. It's very inconvenient. Finally I have all the time to write, and then I can't! Anyway, I might post another chapter this weekend to make up for it, I don't know...**

**That One Guest and Littlemissxflydog (sorry if that's wrong, doing it from memory right now!), thank you both for the reviews!**

**I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

England was seriously beginning to wonder where he was: trees surrounded him, the leaves forming a green roof above his head, sunlight filtering through the gaps. A light, freash breeze blew past, carrying the scent of many flowers in full bloom, and close by, he heard the quiet rush of water. He knew he was in a forest near a brook or even a river, but where it was exactly, he had no idea. Even less so did he know how he got here. So he was wandering around through the trees, constantly looking around for anything he might recognise to tell him where he was. Suddenly, a soft voice came, seemingly flloating on the breeze as it blew past again. "Are you lost, dear?"

Startled, he looked around, seeing a young woman clad in a white and darkgreen dress stand a few meters behind him. He was about to ask who she was, when suddenly, he just somehow knew. His breath caught in his throat and his eyes widened slightly in shock as he breathed, "M-mom...?" Brittania only smiled at him. Slowly, almost hesistantly, he took a few steps closer, while she just remained standing where she was. "Is this a... a dream?" England asked, not sure what to make of the situation. Brittania nodded. "You could call it that, yes," she spoke softly. Her voice was even more gentle than England had imagined, warm and calming to hear. He'd heard it only once before, but then she had been weak and on the brink of death. He'd never forgotten her voice, though, but hearing it now warmed his heart even more than that memory had ever done. But suddenly it dawned on him, and he asked, panicking a little, "W-wait, I'm not... I'm not _dead_, am I?"

Brittania shook her head and took a step closer to her youngest son. "Not quite, no, but not alive either. You're somewhere inbetween right now." She looked him in the eyes, hers with the same emerald hue his were, and suddenly, he didn't mind wether or not he was dead. He was with his mother now, a wish he'd had since the day he was born. She seemed to notice how his expression changed, because she placed her hand on his shoulder and said, "Oh, honey, one day you will come here and I will finally be able to put my arms around you. But the arms holding you right now aren't mine, they're your brothers'. _They _need you now, more than you shall ever need me. It is time for you to go back, my dear, and live the life you have right now. You have so many years yet to come, so many things left to experience." England only nodded, grabbing her hand from his shoulder and holding it for a moment, enjoying every second she was still with him. Her hands were so delicate, soft and warm... But the touch began to fade, as did England's consciousness. He looked up at her again, and she was still smiling at him with so much warmth and so much love. He could only just get a few words over his lips. "I love you, mother." Brittania's smile brightened, and she answered, "And I love you, my dear son. I'm glad I've had the chance to speak to you, but even more glad that you don't have to stay here. Now go, live."

With these words, her touch and the whole world around England faded, being replaced by darkness but a warmth that seemed out of place. One side of him was covered in this warmth, something that felt like an arm around his chest. Then there were two seperate hands, one on his cheek and the other on his leg. Slowly, he began to hear voices, two of them, and they were talking to eachother. "He's warming up," one of them said, sounding relieved. The other let out a sigh before answering, "Oh, that's good. The blood must be helping, then." This voice was higher than the first, sounding younger as well. Then the first voice laughed softly and said, "Well, actually, I think my dear brother here is doing a better job at warming him up than that blood is!" The second voice then joined in the laughter before inquiring, "Shouldn't we move him, though? I mean, he-" The first voice interrupted him, saying, "No, I say we let him sleep. He's been through a lot, and they just said he isn't hurting him just laying there. If he starts moving too much, I'll move him, but for now this is just fine." The youngest of the British Isles couldn't quite make out what or who they were talking about, but to him, it didn't matter. He was exhausted, and content enough just laying there. Soon, sleep took him again, and his consciousness slipped.

* * *

Ireland ran into England's bedroom after having heard what had happened. He wanted to say something, but he stopped himself the moment he got into the room, his blue eyes falling on a rather heartwarming scene. America had placed himself somewhere in a corner, reading a book for the time being, while Wales sat closer to England's bed. On it lay not only the Englishman, but also Scotland, who was fast asleep and had one arm around his little brother. Clearly he wasn't about to let go, a feeling Ireland could well understand. The only things ruining this scene were England's pale complexion and the sack of blood next to his bed for the bloodtranfusion he so desperately needed to stay alive now. America had been the one tasked to call Ireland about what had happened, since Wales was busy and Scotland just needed to calm down first and foremost. The teenager had told him there'd been a surgent with them at the nation's home, as they didn't dare move him anymore, which was a wise decision according to said surgent. He'd stitched the nation up and prepared the bloodtransfusion, then gave them the advice to keep him in his bed for at least three days, no work for over a week at least.

When his oldest brother came in, Wales looked up, his expression unchanging. America, too, looked up from the book he was reading, whispering a quick, "Hey, Irish dude." That had always been his nickname for Ireland once he'd stopped calling him 'Uncle Caroll'. He never pronounced the name quite right, making it more the English version of his name, which was, unfortunately, female. After a while Ireland just gave up the effort of trying to teach him the proper pronounciation. Well, it was better than what Scotland had to endure back in the day: he'd been called Alice. Wales never had problems like that, since his name was easy to pronounce even for little children such as America back then. He was, however, more than once mistaken for a whale if children had only heard his country name and hadn't yet seen him in person.

"So how is he?" Ireland asked quietly, hoping not to wake either England or Scotland. Wales sighed and answered, just as softly, "Well, as good as it gets for now. He's in no danger anymore, just has to take his time to recover." But America shook his head and reminded the older nation, "_If _this battle doesn't continue on like this. Unless he got all the damage at once. He might still be in danger, you know." But Wales just shook his head and reasoned, "If the battle was still going on or this wasn't all yet, _we_ would feel it as well. It's done." Ireland nodded: it was the truth after all. With some particularly bad battles, the damage to a nation came at once instead of spread over the whole extent of the battle. It was a dangerous thing, like what happened that day to England, but it could also spare them any long torture, which was the bright side of it all. Ireland turned his gaze on his little brother again and sighed. There were just a few things he had to tell him, but with the other three nations here, it would be hard. Wales seemed to notice this, though, and got up, placing a hand on the Irishman's shoulder and whispering, "Alfred and I will go for a moment. But please, let Allistair sleep. He's too far gone to hear you now, anyway. He's... really been through a lot today." Ireland nodded, understanding this. He waited until America got to his feet as well and left with Wales before he sat down on the chair next to England's bedside.

"I heard ye might wanna know why I left ye, lad," he began softly, reaching out with one hand and stroking England's golden blonde hair for a moment. Some strands were still caked with blood. "So I'll tell ye. I know ye can't answer, but ye can hear me, right? What ye pro'ly dun'realise, Arthur, is that I too was only a wee lad when mum died. Hardly in me early teens, even. An' I suddenly got all the responsibility. Suddenly, _I_ had to be head o'the family, an' it was hard." He shook his head as he spoke. "But that ain't all. It's mostly because I'd spend seven months tryin' t'get used to the thought of never seeing the mother I loved so much anymore. An' then ye were born, an' she died, an' we were going to bury her... And I looked at ye, an' ye just looked _so much like her._ Ye dun'realise how much ye look like our mother, do ye? Carbon copy, lad, carbon copy. Same face, same lips, same nose, same eyes... Yer an exact copy of our mother. An' after I'd spend so long trying to accept that she was dyin' I just... I just _buried_ her, how could I take her with me again? I know it's a poor reason, but it's the only reason I ever had. An' I'm sorry for that, lad. Ye deserved better." There wasn't so much as a twitch from either England or Scotland, so he felt comfortable enough to say the rest. England was pale as death now, his breathing laboured, all obvious signs he was still in pain. A lot of pain. "Oh, ye poor sod," Ireland sighed, retracting his hand as he spoke. "Ye've suffered so much already. And I'm only going to make it worse. But as much as I'd like to say I'm sorry, Arthur... I shouldn't lie, now should I?" Every trace of expression was now gone from his face, his eyes blank and emotionless. "Because I'm not. I'm not sorry at all. But dun'worry, it ain't like I'm lookin' forward to hurtin' ye. In fact, wee brother, I dun... I dun'feel anything anymore. It's just... empty. Gone. I dun'feel satisfaction, nor do I feel remorse. An' I know that, as yer big brother, I should be worried 'bout ye now, angry at whoever did this to ye. But I can't even manage that much. _It's all gone._ An' for what it's worth, without emotion behind it, I'm sorry fer that, lad." After having said that, he got up and left again.

* * *

"So how exactly did Scottie go blind?" America inquired as he and Wales worked in the bathroom, finally taking the time the clean the blood away. "I mean, I heard rumours that something was wrong with him, and that it had something to do with the Great War, but to see it for myself... How?" Wales sighed, really not wanting to discuss that topic now. "Do you honestly _have _to ask now, Alfred?" The kid still didn't have the slightest bit of ability to read the atmosphere, clearly, because he just continued. "Well, y'see, nations usually don't get disabilities like that. I mean, my own eyesight isn't the best," he said as he tapped his glasses. "But to not see at all... How is that even possible for us?" Suddenly, Wales just threw the sponge he was using to clean aside and gave his bucket a rough kick, spilling water all over the tiles. "Can't you just shut up?!" he said, anger edging his voice. "It just _happened, _all right? You really have a lot left to learn about your own kind, don't you? We _aren't_ the fucking superheroes you might think we are, just because we don't die of illness or old age! We can't take everything life throws our way, _we break sometimes!_ And in Al's case, one of his senses broke and disappeared! In Artie's case, his lifeline broke and faded for a moment and he died! And I... I just..." He let himself fall against a wall with his back and slide down onto the cold, wet tiles, covering his face with both hands as he only just managed to choke out, "I just can't take it anymore." At that moment, the door opened, revealing Ireland, who was staring at the scene with narrowed blue eyes. "What is-? Oh, never mind. I'll be going' now. Dun'think my presence is wanted here, anyway." Wales just huffed, not looking up as he said, "Right. Get your bloody arse out of here, right now. You said what you had to say, right? Get out." America just stared, baffled, as Ireland turned and left without another word. A minute later, the front door of the house closed with a loud bang that made the American flinch.

He then slowly went over to Wales and sat down against the wall beside him, placing a hand on one of his arms, silent. They sat like that for a little while, Wales completely tense and not seeming to start relaxing his muscles again anytime soon. Eventually, America just said, "The world is a heavy burden to carry on your shoulders, y'know. You don't have to do it alone." And then Wales just broke.

* * *

**Unfortunately, I have experience with both Ireland's and Wales' problem. When too much emotionally draining things happen after eachother, emotions tend to just shut down completely. It's a survival mechanism, but even not feeling anything can hurt. And as for thinking you're the one having to keep it together for the sake of others... Well, it's a long story in my case. It's just the feeling that you have to be the strong one, the rock others can lean on, even if you are broken to the core, and it's hard.**

**Well, that was it for today then. Sorry that this chapter was shorter than the others. I hope you liked it, and please leave a review!**


	21. Chapter 21

**Just a breather, this chapter. For the most part, anyway. It is more Scotland-centric until the end, and no real angsty stuff as well (until the end~)**

**And for once, I read the whole chapter before posting it, so I think (read: hope) I worked away most spelling errors this time around.**

**That One Guest and littlemissxflydog: thanks a lot for the reviews and story favourite and follow, both here and on _Drinking Together!_**

**I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

Scotland woke up slowly, blinking twice before opening his eyes, begin greeted by a dim light to his right: the window. Right in front of his face was some sort of light as well, and when he brushed his fingertips against it, he found only soft cloth. Bandages. His heart began beating faster as he realised he could _see_ them, however vaguely. They were white, after all, and white reflected light, even if just slightly. His sight was getting better with the hour, it seemed, though he knew that wasn't at all true. It would take some time, and he had already accepted the fact it would never be what it used to be anymore, for that was a certainty. But suddenly, his mind went to something else, as he realised he was lying next to England. Ofcourse, in his exhaustion but stubborness in not wanting to leave his little brother's side after that ordeal, he had just crawled into the bed beside him and promptly fallen asleep. His cheeks tinted redish as he though about that again, somehow embarassed about it. But then again, who could blame him? He wanted to be there and make sure England's heart wouldn't stop again.

Curious, he pulled the arm he had wrapped around the Englishman back so that his hand lay on the bare chest, which was rising and falling rythmically again. Under his fingers, England's heart beat strongly again, and the Scot let out a sigh in relief. Well, his little brother wasn't going anywhere anymore now, he knew that for sure. Careful not to wake him up, he got up and out of the bed, readjusting the sheets for England before he went out of the room. There were no voices upstairs, so for a moment the thought that perhaps it was night crossed his mind. But no, he'd seen light falling into England's room through the window, so it was still day. Though, what time it was he didn't have a clue. When he approached the stairs, he could smell something warm, which was his clue someone was cooking. He went down the stairs quickly and barged into the living room, stretching his arms a bit. He heard movement as he did so, and he greeted whichever of the two other present nations was there. "Hey there!" Then followed a silence, soon broken by the other, who turned out to be Wales. "H-hi, Al..." His voice sounded a bit off, and the Scot realised it was the trembling of someone who's just been crying. He made a mental note on having to talk to Wales the moment they had time alone, see if he could help like his younger brother had helped him earlier. "You're, er... cheery, considering..." the Welshman went on, a bit confused.

"Aye, I am!" Scotland just answered, smiling. "I mean, I've slept rather good, an' Arthur seems to be fine again aside from asleep." He got closer to where Wales sat, which, judging by the distance, he knew was the couch and not the armchair, and sat down beside him. "You should go upstairs an' look at him in a minute or so, Dylan. He seems so... content, somehow." He smiled now as he recalled a dream he'd had, which somehow hadn't felt like a dream at all. "Y'know, I dreamed I was in a forest at one point. Suddenly I heard two voices talking and looked from a distance... it was mum and Artie, talking to eachother. They both seemed so happy to see eachother after all those centuries!" Wales seemed to relax now, too, and he leaned against his older brother, his face hidden in the crook of his neck. "I'm glad they did," he whispered, then leaning in even closer to his brother. "Really glad. Say, Allistair...?" Scotland only hummed in response, questioningly, waiting for his brother to continue. He felt Wales' lips twisting into a smile against his skin. "This may be the last evening we're alive, you know. America's cooking dinner." A shiver went down Scotland's back, and he laughed nervously. "Bugger... Ye let 'im? What's the lad making?" Wales just shrugged and answered quickly that he was making fish and chips, one of the few British things he knew how to make. Well, for that reason, and because he couldn't think of anything else with the available ingredients. He wasn't exactly a culinary genius, that kid. After that a silence fell, and it wasn't long before Wales' breathing got steady and deep, and Scotland smiled contently as he allowed his younger brother to just sleep against him like that.

* * *

America whistled cheerfully as he was cooking. It wasn't usually his favourite task in the world, but since it was to help his favourite family in the world, he did it gladly. Sure, he and England had their fallouts, but he still regarded him and his older brothers as his family. As much so as his twin brother, Canada. England had raised him after all, and Scotland, Wales and Ireland had been the best uncles in the world to him, even if he didn't often see them. He loved them dearly, and all he wanted was to help them out in this difficult time. The war had damaged them all greatly, physically and most of all emotionally, and trouble with Ireland's people only made it worse. He didn't quite agree with the idea of a rising, but neither did he agree with the way the English had reacted to that by executing the rebel leaders. He had funded Ireland, supported him in this endeavor since he knew the feeling of needing independence very well. He had only hoped he would have waited unil a few years after the Great War to make things easier for his brothers. He would talk to him about that soon enough. But first he was gonig to stay here for a week or two, perhaps three, until England was fully recovered. He didn't want to leave Wales to most of it, even though he knew Scotland could pretty much take care of himself after a year of being blind. He shivered briefly as that word made it's way into his head again. In one of his battles against England and Canada, some accident occured that he didn't quite remember, and he'd woken up with blurry sight after that which had just never healed again. But to actually not see at all must be terrifying. Hell, _he_ had been terrified already!

He grabbed some plates from the cupboard, noticing the food was nearly done, then went into the living room where Wales sat. Apparently, Scotland had joined him and the Welshman had fallen asleep at some point. Well, that was good, America decided. _He _needed his rest, too, not just his older- and younger brother. "Hey, Al," America said softly to the Scot, still finding it strange to use a nickname usually used for himself. "Dinner's ready. I can try and keep Dylan's warm by keeping it on the stove, but you should come and eat. I mean, you haven't lunched at all... And I doubt Arthur's food is that good." Scotland smiled at him, his blind eyes twinkling with unhidden joy. "Oh? Artie's food isn't good, y'say? True, true... but neither is yours, usually." America began laughing, keeping his voice down for Wales' sake, then said, "Ah, right. But fish and chips can hardly be ruined." Scotland got up, careful not to wake his younger brother, still with that smirk as he muttered, "Oh, yer wrong 'bout that, laddie. Very wrong."

* * *

After dinner, which was just fine and not burned at all, Wales still hadn't woken up, and Scotland and America were standing next to the couch, wondering what to do with him. "I've gotten my sleep for the day," Scotland said. "So I say he can use my bed. Well, the guest room's... Ah, ye know what I mean, lad. The one I use." America just shrugged and asked, "You sure you want to move him, though? What if he wakes up?" But Scotland only inspected his little brother for a moment, then shook his head, reassuring the American, "He ain't wakin' up anytime soon, an' if he is, he can finally have dinner or some'in." America seemed to agree to his reasoning, bent forward and slid his arms under the Welshman's knees and shoulders, carefully picking him up. Luckily he wasn't very heavy, though that didn't even suprise America: like England, Wales wasn't very tall and rather slim, only just a bit heavier built than the youngest of the siblings was. And to America at least, with his strength, England was like a feather. He had no trouble at all carrying him upstairs, though once they reached the top of the stairs, Wales cracked one eye open and let out a soft, sleepy hum. America looked down at him instantly, sighing in relief as he noticed the exhausted nation was nowhere near awake yet. So he kept on walking, more slowly now, as he softly spoke to him. "Hey there, Dylan," he whispered slowly, knowing that was the most soothing, calming way of speaking. It was bound to get the nation back asleep in a minute. "I'm just moving ya to a more comfortable place to sleep, alright? Couch was bound to give you a stiff neck or back if you stayed there too long. So just close your eyes again, alright?" Wales only hummed, giving a tiny nod, then dozed off again. The teenager then placed him on the bed, on top of the sheets as it was summer and he was still wearing his clothes. Sheets would have been too warm. Though he did notice Wales was still wearing his shoes, and with an amused look of disaprovement, took them off for the older nation.

When he got back in the hallway, Scotland stood there, a warm smile on his face. America's cheeks reddened a bit at this, and for the first time he was glad something like blindness even existed. "That was... very nice, how ye did that," Scotland just said softly, hoping not to wake either of his younger brothers now. "Y'know, I always thought ye were an obnoxious wee brat, but yer actually really good at caring fer people." America just shrugged and smiled. "Yeah, well... Not too long before I started the revolution, Arthur had quite some economical trouble. He was at my place then, and seeing as I was old enough not to be dependent on him anymore, I decided to switch roles and be the one caring for him for a change. I also helped out a lot if Matthew caught a cold or something. I guess it's because of those things." He then looked to the side, to England's bedroom door, and asked, "Should we check on him again by now?" Scotland just nodded and agreed it would be a wise thing to do.

When they entered his room, everything was exactly the way Scotland had left it: peaceful and quiet. So he and the North American nation just sat down on a chair each and began talking softly, until suddenly, America got an idea. "Hey, Allistair, you said you're beginning to see again?" Scotland just nodded, curious where this was going. "Well then, it would be useless if you were still fully blind, but since you're not anymore... wanna try on my glasses, see if it helps even a little?" Scotland just narrowed his eyes at him, unsure what to make of this. Did he seriously think some stupid glasses would help? After all, America's sight wasn't that bad, so his glasses weren't exactly the strong type. But when he mentioned this to the teen, he just shook his head and said, "I know, but I have a spare pair that I mostly use on worse days. It's not always exactly the same, y'know? I also tend to use them at night, to just give my eyes that extra kick to work better. They still won't be strong enough for you, but you could still try." Scotland just sighed and gave in, knowing the kid would keep insisting until he tried. So he held out his hand and reluctantly accepted his glasses. "But I'm tellin' ye, Alfred," he began, trying to figure out the thing as to not poke out his eyes. They were just starting to work again, he wasn't willing to lose them completely. "I don't think this will- _well bloody-!_" The moment he had the glasses on, his heart seemed to just stop. Of course everything was still dark, but he could make out silhouets with that thing on. He raised his right arm and moved it around a bit, his eyes fixed on it. It was all still vague, but he could without a doubt see the shape and the movement. Eventually he had to remind himself to breathe, and he looked at America wide-eyed. "Lad... I could just kiss ye right now."

America grimaced, though he managed a soft laugh as well. "So long as you don't hit the lips... I'm okay with it." He didn't even get the chance to say anymore, as Scotland grabbed his face with both hands and gave him what was probably the most grateful, slightly exaggerated kiss ever on his forehead before hugging him so tight, he was struggling to breathe. "Feckin' hell, I can-" the Scot just choked out, countless emotions in his voice. "I can... I can acutally _see_ ye... A-an' Artie over there... An' t-the closet..." America let out another soft laugh, strained as he still had a slight lack of oxygen due to Scotland's tight grip, and he patted the older nation on the back. "That's the miracle called glasses, my friend," he told him. "I still thank the Heavens for mine every single day." When Scotland finally loosened his grip on the young nation, though he still didn't let go, the American added, "You can hold on to those for as long as I'm here, if you want." That turned out to be a bad decision, as Scotland gave him the same crushing hug he'd just escaped from all over again.

* * *

Ireland came home late in the evening, when the sun was already replaced by the moon. The sky was clear that night, stars shining in great numbers in the endless darkness. It was beautiful, but it did nothing to him. He just went inside without giving the sky so much as a glance, even though the nature was one of his favourite things in the world. All he cared about now was that he was hungry and tired, and he would eat something and then sleep. All the rest didn't matter. He didn't have much food in his home, so he just cut a chunk of bread and ate that. He'd have a proper meal the next day. Or perhaps the day after tomorrow. But as he was eating, still in the kitchen as he didn't want to take the time to sit down for a tiny morsel like this, his eyes fell on the knife he'd used. He didn't really know what came over him that moment, but he couldn't take his eyes off it. His thoughts were racing at that moment, he knew, but he didn't even know what he was thinking, as he wasn't keeping track of his thoughts at all. All he knew later was that he'd picked it up, and at one point he found himself holding the knife against the artery in his wrist, not cutting, just holding it there, wondering wether he _should_ cut. Suicide wouldn't be possible, he knew, but if he lost enough blood he'd be out like a light for a week at least. Normally he'd have put the knife away instantly, knowing he couldn't do that to his brothers, especially not after everything that had happened lately already. And even now, he knew that. He just didn't _feel_ it anymore, which was the thing that finally brought him to pull the knife back, cutting his skin and drawing blood.

He hadn't expected the blood to well up quite as fast as it did. It litterally _gushed _out of the wound, and all of a sudden, he got his sense back again. "Holy shit!" he exclaimed, throwing the knife he was still holding aside, then clasping his hand over the wound, pressing it shut in an attempt to stop the bleeding as much as he could. He instantly went off to grab bandages, wrapping them tightly around the cut the moment he found them. The bleeding didn't take long to stop, thank his nation body for that. He just crashed down onto his couch, staring wide-eyed at the bloodstained bandages on his wrist. "Holy shit..." he said again, whispering now, horrified at what he'd just done. "Why would I-? _By God... why would I...?_" At that moment, he knew with a certainty that he needed help. But he also knew that the only people that _could_ help him now wouldn't exactly be up to the task. He'd made sure of that the moment he betrayed them.

* * *

**So... sorry for ruining the not-sad-chapter with that sad ending. But I have to keep true to the genre (ehehehe... actually I just wanted to write this somehow... XD) I think I finally found a song for Ireland as well (listened to it while writing, and it just fit). So here's a part of Red's _Faceless: "_I'm not, I'm not myself, feel like I'm someone else. I'm fallen and faceless, so hollow inside. A part of me is dead, need you to live again. Can you replace this? I'm hollow, hollow and faceless!"**

**Sooooo... that was it for today~ Hope you liked it, I'm sorry, and please leave a review~**


	22. Chapter 22

**That One Guest and GondorCalling: thank you very much for the reviews, follow and favourite. And yup, That One Guest, cutting is awful, and Ireland knows that very well. But at that moment he didn't really think or feel, and that's why he just went ahead and did it. Unfortunately...**

**I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

When England woke up, he only knew it was one or several days after that battle had wounded him. The first things he saw were his two brothers, Wales and Scotland. Ireland wasn't there, but he knew he shouldn't have expected him to be, anyway. He noticed something about Scotland was off, but he couldn't tell what. He blinked a few times, cringing as Wales spoke to him, "Hey there, Arthur. How are you feeling?" He felt as if he had a hangover, to be honest. Sounds sounded that much louder to his ears now, hence him cringing when Wales talked. And _Gods, _did he feel weak. But he felt _alive_, his heart beating, his blood pumping through his veins. And considering what had happened, that was just the best feeling ever. Since he didn't exactly know how to put this to words, he just hummed in response to the question. Then he finally saw what was off about the older of his two brothers, and he rasped in confusion, "S-since when do you wear glasses...?" Scotland laughed for a moment. "Since America over here gave them to me two days ago to use while he's here," he said, gesturing to said nation who stood beside him. For some reason, England hadn't noticed him until now. And he wasn't quite pleased.

"Hey, dad," America greeted him calmly, a small smile playing at his lips. Wrong choice of words. England stiffened, glaring at him. "What are _you _doing here?" he hissed with all the fire he currently had in him, which wasn't much. "_Get. Out."_ America looked hurt, and he blinked once before choking out, "B-but, _dad_-"

"And don't call me that!" England interrupted him fiercely. "If you wanted me to be your father, you should've thought about that _before _going into a bloody revolution!" This was something America didn't just accept, and though he kept his cool as much as he could, he retorted angrily, "If you didn't want me to be your son, you shouldn't have raised me in the first place and just given me to France instead!" He then shook his head and calmed himself again before adding, "I came here two days ago with Dylan, and we found you half dead with Allistair. I stayed here to help them, and because I was worried about you. And I'm _staying _here until you've recovered and they can handle the situation well enough on their own again, wether you like it or not!" He then took a step back, looking at the door for a moment. "I'll leave you alone now, but you're not free of me just yet, Old Dude. Because no matter how many fallouts we have, the past won't change, and you're still my father to me." He then left, leaving the three older nations to stare after him.

England sighed, admitting then he shouldn't have been that harsh on him. He was only there to help, after all, and he truly was grateful for that. But he just couldn't let go of the past tensions between them as easily as the American could. Both Scotland and Wales reassured him that it would be okay: America was rather quick to forgive, especially something like this.

* * *

A month passed after that, and though the battle was still raging on at the front, the brothers didn't have any pain from it anymore. They _had_ gotten all of the damage at once, which, in this case, had been a good thing. By now, England was walking around the house again, doing little chores, though no real work quite yet. But he was feeling just fine again. It was around that time that Scotland began to see silhouets even without America's spare glasses, who had left the week before.

One morning, Scotland and England were the only ones downstairs yet, and they were having breakfast together as they waited for Wales. He was taking a while to wake up for his doing, but they didn't think anything of it until it was already eleven o'clock. "I'll go wake him," England sighed, amused. Wales didn't usually sleep in like this, so he must've been really tired. Scotland just nodded and kept waiting for his two younger brothers to return downstairs together. England didn't put any effort in being quiet as he went upstairs, opened the door to his guest room where Wales slept, and went inside. The room was filled with light filtering in through the window, and Wales still hadn't woken up from it. He smiled as he approached him, though the smile faded a little as he saw how pale he looked, his cheeks flushed and his breathing laboured. The English nation carefully placed his hand on his brother's forehead to check his temperature, which he found was unusually high. But, he soon concluded, it wasn't _too_ high. A mild fever a most, nothing bad. For a moment he wondered wether he should still go ahead and wake him or not, but he soon made up his mind and just went downstairs again.

"So?" Scotland asked with a grin as England came down again. "Did he put up a good fight? Protested loudly and cursed you for even daring to wake him up?" England just shook his head, and told him, "I'm afraid our brother is getting a little under the weather, though it's not bad. And honestly, what could we expect? Long periods of stress often result in physical ailments such as a fever or a cold." Before he went into the kitchen, he added, "So don't go upstairs and wake him yourself now, he deserves a few days off. And if this is the way his body wants to provide him with it, then so be it." Scotland laughed and faked a hurt expression as he said, overly dramatic, "Oh, I wouldn't _dare_ visit the dragon in his den, my dearest brother, lest he wake up and burn me to ashes!" England rolled his eyes and shook his head at this, chuckling a bit. Despite all the troubles the brothers had, they were finally looking at the brighter side of life again instead of all getting depressed. Well, then again, he hadn't had contact with Ireland in two months at least, so he had no idea how his oldest brother was doing. But in Great Britain at least, things were going okay.

He just went and made a pot of tea, pouring a cup for Wales as well. Instead of sugar, he put in a tiny bit of cinnamon, an idea he'd gotten after making a mistake a little while ago, as he'd been half asleep when deciding to make himself some tea. The taste had surprised him at first, but after a few sips, he found adding cinnamon was actually rather delicious. He knew for sure Wales would like it as well, as he, though he wasn't much of a sweet tooth, _definitely_ loved cinnamon to bits. He carefully brought it upstairs and put it on the nightstand for his brother to drink when he woke up.

* * *

It was raining again. Of course it was, when the hell _didn't _it rain in Ireland? Other than some humans believed, weather and mood didn't really go hand in hand in nations: it didn't start raining when they were sad, the sun didn't start shining when they were happy. But the same as for humans, it could go the other way around, like it did now. He'd finally accepted that he was depressed, and the many days of rain and grey skies didn't help cheer him up in the least. On the contrary even, since the streets were beginning to flood a little by now, he was more or less stuck inside his house. Of course this only meant Autumn was approaching, but to him, it felt like someone had downright cursed him.

He sat curled up on his couch, watching the dark sky outside with red-rimmed eyes as rain continued streaming down the window. "Damn you," he muttered softly, gritting his teeth. "Damn you to hell, climate. It's still fucking summer, fuck off with your damned rain." He drank the last of his beer, then set the bottle aside on the coffeetable and curled up further. It was too cold and too dark outside for August. He then raised his left arm, inspecting the wrist area. Now there wasn't just one cut anymore, though the first was still a thin silver line right across his artery. That one had been a pure suicide attempt, even though that was impossible for a nation. The two just under it were silverish by now as well, thinner and more shallow. Under those were three fresher ones, the skin still tinted reddish-pink. The second and third cuts, he'd made when he was drunk two weeks ago. The fourth, fifth and sixth were made over the course of last week, and he had been fully conscious when he made those. He still didn't know why he did it: he wasn't a masochist, he hated pain. But in a way, perhaps, he just thought he deserved it. He was the world's worst big brother, and had proven that time and time again. He had killed people, countless, but that was a burden every nation had to carry. Wars meant battle, battle meant death. It still hurt, though. And aside from those things, he was also close to what you could call an alcoholic, always had been. He had been too weak to keep his promises, too weak to free his people, too weak to help his brothers. And now he was too weak to keep it together and remain standing. Now, he was crumbling and falling apart.

Suddenly thunder struck right above Dublin, and Ireland jumped up from where he sat. "I know I screwed up, damnit!" he yelled at the thunderclouds outside. "I know I'm a failure, you don't have to remind me!_ Tá mé an amú de spás_, a fucking waste of space! I KNOW, DAMNIT!" He picked up the beer bottle he'd just emptied, smashing it to pieces against a wall. "But I can't help existing!" he went on in full rage. "I can't end myself, even if I want to! I can only stay here and suffer and remain the poor excuse of a nation I am!" He picked up a shard of the glass, digging it into his wrist until blood just poured out, and he laughed as he looked at the sky outside again. "_Feiceann tú?_ I can't die! You see now, don't you? No matter how much I bleed, inside and outside, _I can't die!_ So just leave me alone, don't remind me of anything! Hell, I know I don't deserve to be here anymore, but I am! I am, and I'm not leaving!" He then collapsed onto his knees, pressing the fresh cut shut again. Now he remembered why he kept doing it: they were_ all_ suicide attempts, actually, even though he knew very well he couldn't die. Everytime he just kept hoping he would somehow defy the laws of nature and bleed to death, much like England had, with the only difference that he wouldn't be revived. He didn't want to be.

And as he sat there, watching his own blood dripping from his wrist onto the ground, suddenly, two pale hands softly grabbed his injured arm, holding it gently. For a moment he sat frozen there as the soft, gentle fingers traced the cuts on his wrist, then let go again, holding his face instead. He couldn't look up, but he knew very well who this person was, and he leaned against their shoulder, closing his eyes and sighing. "I'm sorry I failed you, mother," he whispered. "I know this is not how you wanted me to turn out, betraying my brothers and bertraying you and even myself. I'm sorry." But all he got in response was a warmth around him and the soft, familiar voice of Brittania in his mind. _You could never fail me. No matter what, I will always love you._ He bit his lip, but knew that surpressing the rush of emotion surging through his body now wouldn't work. Tears were making their way down his face, mingling with the blood on the wooden floor. And in his misery, his self-loathing and despair, Ireland could only wonder how he had ever let it come this far.

* * *

Wales came downstairs around noon, his mind still foggy with sleep. When he walked into the living room, ready to ask why no one had woken him and they only left him a cup of tea and a note saying '_take your time and enjoy your tea. A&amp;A'_, when he stumbled on a rather strange scene. Both England and Scotland sat on a wooden chair from the dinnertable, England positioned behind his older brother with scissors in his hand, carefully cutting away at the Scot's hair. He raised one eyebrow as he came closer, asking, "So, care to tell me what you're doing?"

"It was getting too long," England simply answered, and Scotland sighed in annoyance. "An' I had absolutely no say in this. Ye nearly done, Artie?" He turned his head to look at his younger brother, who gave him a playful smack on the head. "I am, if you can manage to sit still for more than ten seconds!" With a huff, he gave just two last cuts, then ruffled Scotland's hair to get it as messy as he usually kept it again. "See? Done. Now move it so I can clean up." With a grin, Scotland got up from the chair and walked over to Wales, giving him a pat on the shoulder. "So, enjoyed sleepin' in fer once?" he asked, and Wales shook his head to clear his mind. Perhaps he should wait until he was actually awake next time around. Then he just shrugged and answered, "I'm definitely not tired anymore after _that_, if that's what you mean. And thanks for the tea. What'd you put in it?" The answer came from England, who was sweeping away strands of bright red hair. "Cinnamon." Wales was silent for a moment, just staring at his younger brother, then shrugged. "Well, first time for everything, I guess," he said, surpressing a yawn. For Heaven's sake, he wasn't even tired! "But anyway, why didn't you guys wake me? There's still work to be done, and-"

"You're sick," came England's quick answer. Apparently he was too occupied with cleaning up to give more elaborate answers than that. Wales nearly broke into laughter. He felt perfectly fine! England could really exaggerate things sometimes. "I'm not," he just protested calmly, smiling. "Really, Arthur, I'm fine so you should've woken me." But England shook his head, put the broom aside and went into the kitchen, coming back a mere minute later with a thermometer. This earned him nothing more than a look that said, '_Are you kidding me?_'. Still, he just pushed Wales onto one of the two chairs and stuck the glass object between the older nation's lips. "You're pale, slept for nearly twelve hours, and are warm to the touch. Given, you're not _that_ sick, just a minor cold, but 'fine'..." He took the thermometer back out and looked at it disaprovingly before showing it to Wales himself. Roughly 38 degrees. "That's just you being stubborn, brother." Wales crossed his arms and huffed, staring at England as he went back into the kitchen to put the thermometer back in the drawer. "So what're you going to do?" he asked, still not accepting it. He felt _perfectly healthy_, even if his temperature stated otherwise. "Tie me down and keep me from doing anything with the potential to make it worse?"

Suddenly a broad hand ruffled his hair, and his glared up at Scotland, who just grinned. "'Course not!" he said cheerily. "We're just givin' ye a day off! Ye really deserve one by now, and this is just the perfect oppertunity, is all. Artie an' I will do all work that needs to be done -don't worry, I'll make sure he doesn't overwork himself quite yet- an' ye just enjoy yer time off. Read a book, do some embroidery, I dunno. Just something." Wales almost grimaced at the last idea Scotland gave, and he echoed, "_Embroidery?_ Just because Artie thinks he is a woman, doesn't mean I do, too." At this, England went to stand in font of him with an expression of mock-anger, his arms crossed over his chest as he demanded, "Excuse me? Since when is that a hobby only for women?" Wales just gave him a playful poke in the chest, smirking, as he answered immediately, "Since _you're _the only male I know who does it!" The three just kept teasing eachother like that for a little while, before England and Allistair went off to do some of the paperwork of that day together, leaving Wales to enjoy his first day off in a while.

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**No, I'm not trying to torture Wales further. In fact, in a strange way, I'm doing my dear OC a favour here: he feels fine, but since his brothrs are so stubborn (as is he, of course) he still gets a day off. Wonderful.**

**As for Ireland, well... I am torturing him. But a depression like his isn't over in a day, or a week, or a month. It will take some time before he's over this one.**

**Note on the temperature mentioned: 38 degrees _is_ considered a fever. I do not know how much it would be in the system they use in America (and other parts of the world...?), sorry. A normal human temperature in celsius is roughly 36.5 to 37.**

**And the Irish (which probably only resembles Irish, but let's not get into those details): **

**_Tá mé an amú de spás - _I am a waste of space**

**_Feiceann tú? -_ You see?**

**Well, thanks for reading, and stay tuned for the next chapter (slight suspense coming up!), as I'm already halfway done with that. And of course, a review would be appreciated ;)**


	23. Chapter 23

**To That One Guest and Aguukolkolkol: thanks for the review and story favourite! And I'm sorry for donig this all to poor Ireland... but he's going to get help soon! I can promise you that.**

**I do not own Hetalia.**

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Months had gone by. The Battle of the Somme was finally over, resulting in a crushing defeat for the Britsh Empire and France. The Central Powers were terrifyingly strong. But that wasn't exactly on his mind right now, as he was staring at the calendar, realising it was already December 20, and they still hadn't heard a word from Ireland since July. Wales didn't seem to mind it much, as he was still angry of his betrayal, but Scotland openly voiced his worry lately. England, too, was still angry, but he thought something was off about it. If he was all alone on his island, Ireland would get drunk and barge into one of his brothers' homes at least once every two months, craving some attention then leaving again after a long conversation. Now nearly six months had passed, and they hadn't seen or heard him even _once._ He'd decided the day before that he would go to Dublin if Ireland still didn't call or show up _that _same evening, which he hadn't. Scotland had said he'd come along, but England protested, stating he wanted to go alone. One of these days, he and Ireland had to have a good conversation about the rising and all those things. Perhaps if he did so now, the whole affair would just be over with, forgiven though not forgotten. So he put on his coat, got into the car early in the morning and left.

* * *

Ireland was taking a stroll through Dublin for a change. He'd left before dawn, without even having breakfast, but then again, he wasn't even hungry yet. Things were getting out of control, and he needed to just get out of his house, away from work and... 'temptations', as he tended to call it. He was doing his best to resist them, and it was going rather well: the last drop of alcohol he'd had was four days ago, and he hadn't picked up a knife all week. With the exception of today, and three or four other days over the past three weeks, he'd never skipped a meal, so he wasn't starving himself. Only the day before, he'd cleaned up his place again after having shirked that duty for three weeks. If he could keep this up, he knew he was getting there again and things were looking up. But nothing he did could chase away the numbness in his mind and heart. And he still felt he was undeserving of life, though by now he'd accepted that perhaps living was his punishment. After all, if he wanted to die, why let him? He needed to be punished, and keeping him alive was probably the only way to do so now, the greatest suffering of all.

When he reached the Liffey, he stood on a bridge and leaned on the railing. Snow was covering the ground under his feet, and surprisingly enough, the frost had been strong enough to freeze the Liffey solid. On the ice lay a thick layer of snow, just like the streets around it. Ireland had hoped this serene scenery could spark _something _in his mind, rekindle his love for every season, including the cold and bare winter. But it didn't, and he just sighed. If only he could feel _something._ Right now, he'd rather feel pain than nothing at all, for nothingness was pure torture. He sighed and placed his head on him arms, closing his eyes.

"Cearul!" when he heard his name being called out of nowhere, he looked up and looked around, his heart sinking as he saw England running towards him. Of all people, what was _he_ donig here, and why now? Ireland spun around and walked away, picking up his pace when England called him again and he heard his footsteps coming closer. "Cearul, wait! Bloody hell, I've been searching for you for over an hour already!" England called after him, not giving up so easily. "I left at five this morning just to get here, you know? Cearul, for Heaven's sake!" He then caught up with his brother, grabbing him by the arm to stop him from walking away. Ireland flinched when England's fingers pressed onto several small cuts he'd made, but masked it by hitting England's arm away instantly. "Leave me alone!" he hissed from inbetween clenched jaws, spinning around to face England. When his eyes fell on those of his little brother, shocked and hurt, he relaxed his shoulders slightly, only to show he didn't want to fight or run away now. England just reached for him and grabbed him again to prevent him from leaving now, and this time, Ireland managed to not even twitch despite the stinging pain in his arm.

"Cearul, I know things between us haven't been smooth lately," England began, still trying to catch his breath again. "But we haven't heard from you in nearly six months! Not a word, not a single sign of life! We were all worried about you!" _Empty words,_ Ireland thought, looking away. _You don't care. If I don't, how can you? _"You should drop by sometimes, or give us a call, or send us a letter! You can't just disappear for half a year!" Now, Ireland pulled himself free again, and shot back, "And why not? Why can't I? The three of ye made yerselves very clear after the rising: I'm not welcome anymore, yer all angry with me an' dun'want to see my godforsaken face ever again!" He huffed, turning around and walking away. "Same back to ye, bastard. Leave." This time, England didn't try to follow him anymore, though he did still call after him. "Cearul, that isn't true! Yes, I'm angry. Yes, I'd like to beat the living daylight out of you if you ever try something like that again. But wether we like it or not, at the end of the day, we're still brothers! We care about eachother, we can't help that we do, but we do! And it's _obvious_ that you're not alright right now, and I want to help you! So _please_, don't just walk away like that!" But Ireland kept on walking, not looking back.

"Oi!" a new, unfamiliar voice suddenly called out, and Ireland slowed his pace down to listen to what was going on. "Ye English, wee bastard?" The voice sounded slightly slurred. Now, in the early morning that could mean two things: late night drinker who just got out of the alley he'd fallen asleep in, or a _very_ early drinker. Either way, an Englishman could better not pass them in the streets of Dublin at the moment. England didn't answer, but Ireland did hear a soft yelp from him and a thump. Probably he'd been kicked or punched by the drunken Irishman. A second voice then joined in, and Ireland stopped his walking completely. "Ye Englishmen ain't welcome here, haven't ye realised that during Easter? Fuck off, Brit." Now, England replied, a fierceness in his voice Ireland only ever heard when his younger brother felt threatened: it was part of his defense tactic. "Oh, well, why don't you leave yourselves? I'm not going anywhere, so if you don't want to have to look at me, better walk away _right now._" Another thump, a yelp, and a gasp for breath: punch in the stomach. Then came the clattering of metal, and Ireland could imagine his little brother being pushed against the railing of the bridge. "If ye ain't goin' anywhere," one of the two drunken men said. "Then at least get out of our sight! Hope ye can swim, lad?"

At those words, Ireland's heartbeat picked up. No, no he couldn't. He turned around quickly, and at that same moment, England, who had been held by the throat by one of the men, was pushed over the railing, plummeting towards the ice. It broke on impact, and the nation hit the freezing cold water with a loud splash. Immediately, Ireland ran back to the bridge, jumping over the railing into the hole in the ice, diving into the dark and cold water after his brother. He couldn't see England right away, but he spotted him soon enough, swam towards him and grabbed him by the arms. England's eyes were still open, and he was still holding his breath. Ireland had been right on time. He quickly swam back to the hole, pulling his little brother along with him. He was a good swimmer himself, but he had to admit that with heavy winter clothing, his brother and the water weighing them both down, it wasn't the easiest of tasks. The cold seemed to freeze him little by little, but he fought against it. He wouldn't let England drown under the ice. When he reached the hole, he pulled England up, then pushing him over the ice first. England gasped for breath the moment he could, already having been in the water for over half a minute. His lungs had protested fiercely against it. Scrambling onto the ice, he tried to control his trembling limbs, but he felt like a block of ice. Suddenly, the ice under him cracked, and he nearly slipped back into the water before quickly regaining his grip. But as he slipped, his foot had accidentaly hit Ireland in the head, knocking him unconscious. Noticing this, England worked even harder to get out of the water and onto the thick ice, turning around the moment he lay on a stable piece, lunging into the hole and grabbing Ireland by the wrist, pulling him up. A loud crack under him alerted him, and he slid over to another part of the ice, losing his grip on Ireland again. "Shit!" he cursed under his breath, panic welling up inside of him as he saw Ireland sink back into the dark water, still unconscious. He knew he couldn't dive in after him, because then they'd both drown, but he had to get to him. Knowing the risks it held, he leaned into the hole with his upper body under water, struggling to keep his legs from sliding after the rest of his body. He stretched as far as he could, finally reaching his brother again, and could just grab his hand. With his free hand, he gripped the edge of the ice as to not fall in, then pulled Ireland up with all the strength he had in him.

Finally he managed to pull Ireland onto the ice, but by then, the nation had been in the freezing water for at least two minutes already. There was no way he hadn't inhaled water at this point. Looking around to see which side was closer, England carefully pulled his limp body over the ice and towards the pavement. He had a bit of trouble carrying him onto the stone, as it was at least over a meter high and Ireland's thick coat was still heavy with water, but he managed, then climbed on himself. Quickly, he rolled his brother onto his side, waiting a few seconds to see if he would start ridding his lungs of the water himself. After a short moment, Ireland convulsed, water streaming over his lips as he coughed, followed by harsh, ragged breaths, and England sighed in relief. At least he was breathing again, though still unconscious. And that, judging by the trembling of his body and the clattering of his teeth, was a dangerous thing. He had hypothermia. Usually, England would've given him his coat in an instant, but that was still wet and cold as well. The best thing he could do now was take it off for his brother, and then he took off his own as well. He just left those on the street as he picked Ireland up and carried him on his back. One glance around the streets told him there was no one near, probably no one even awake yet. Luckily, he knew his car was only two blocks away. Running as fast as he could with Ireland still limp on his back, he made his way there, shoving his brother onto the backseat before taking place behind the steering wheel. His trembling fingers struggled to get the key in place for a moment, but once he did, he sped off, only one thing on his mind now: Ireland's house, warm him up. In his mind, he went through the house already, trying to remember where blankets could be, where he could best find the things needed to heat a drink or soup. _He needed to get his brother warm again._

* * *

He was driving so fast, he reached Ireland's home in a matter of minutes, found the right key in less than one even, and opened the front door before going back to his car to pick up Ireland and carry him inside. Walking was starting to hurt, as the last punch one of those humans had thrown his way had been _really_ hard. If it had been any higher, he'd have cracked a rib or two. Now he was just sore, luckily, aside from cold and tired. He didn't get up early anticipating _this _before eight in the morning, but it had happened and he couldn't change that. All he could do now was do his best to help his brother, and hope he would wake up again soon. He placed Ireland on the couch, then quickly closed the front door to keep the inside temperature up, then searched for blankets or anything of the sort. He found four, three of which he wrapped around Ireland, one he kept around his own shoulders as he, too, was still freezing. But other than his brother, _his _temperature had risen already since the ordeal. He then put up a kettle with water and let it boil softly as he went upstairs to Ireland's room, searching the wardrobe for something fry to wear, for both Ireland and himself. Beside the wardrobe lay a shirt on the ground, and if he wasn't panicking as much as he still did, he would've made a mental note to complain about Ireland's untidiness to him later. Now he just shrugged it off and grabbed two shirts, sweaters and trousers. As he closed the wardrobe again, however, he noticed something about that shirt on the ground that caught his attention. A stain at the end of the sleeve... Was that... blood? He inspected it a little more closely, than concluded that it was indeed blood. Still, he shrugged it off and went downstairs. He accidentaly cut himself as he was cooking often enough, and as did Ireland, he knew. He just didn't approve of his brother not cleaning it off, but then again, that was _his _problem.

He quickly changed into the dry clothes he'd grabbed, annoyed that they were at least a size too big on him. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but what could he have expected? He was the smallest of the family in every way: the youngest, shortest and skinniest. Scotland was the tallest, and from some perspectives perhaps even a giant, with his broad shoulders, which England only just reached. Ireland was nearly as tall, though slimmer. Wales wasn't too different from England, though the difference was still there. It did sometimes annoy the Englishman, gave him a feeling of inferiority, but then he'd remind himself that despite all that, he _did_ rule the Empire his family had. Inferior in most ways, superior in the ways that mattered. Those things considered, they were equals.

He took the kettle off the fire, putting it aside for the time being. He'd make himself some tea after he'd taken care of Ireland, and should the Irishman wake up, he'd get a warm drink as well. Walking back into the livingroom, he noticed Ireland hadn't moved an inch yet. In certain ways, that was good. In most ways, it wasn't good at all. He walked over to his side, holding the clothes over one arm. Kneeling down, he placed his hand on his brother's cheek, noting he was getting warmer, however slowly. Relieved by this, he unwrapped the bundle of blankets, then began to unbutton his brother's shirt. He wanted to do this as quick as he could, not exposing Ireland to too much cold for a longer period of time. But as he slid the sleeves off the older nation's arms, his breath caught in his throat, and his stomach twisted painfully. He felt sick as his eyes fell on the countless scars criss-crossing Ireland's lower arms, especially around the wrist area. Most were thin silver lines, hardly visible, but some were pink and red, meaning they were fresher. He _wanted_ to notice how the cuts were uneven and twisted, that they were because of some stupid accident. But they weren't. They were all straight, clean cuts, made over a greater period of time. And the most terrifying thing about that...

It meant they were self-inflicted.

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**See? Told you he's getting help soon enough. And obviously, there will be some bonding between England and Ireland again after this.**

**I don't really have anything else to say now, so that's it. I hope you liked it, and thank you very much for reading! Also, as usual, a review is always very much appreciated!**


	24. Chapter 24

**Sorry for the longer wait this time! I planned to upload it last evening, but forgot. Anyway, here it is!**

**That One Guest and Aguukolkolkol: thank you very much for the reviews!**

**I do not own Hetalia**

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When Ireland awoke, he had to admit, he felt like a pile of shit bundled in blankets and placed next to a fireplace. His head hurt, he was dizzy, felt sick, and he was cold. And on top of that, he was exhausted, though he didn't know why. He opened his eyes to a blurry world, but his vision soon came back into focus. And as he looked to the side, he saw, of all people, England sitting on his couch, holding a steaming cup in his hands, taking little sips of it. He, too, had a blanket over his shoulders, his knees pulled up to his chest. Clearly Ireland wasn't the only one who felt cold. The nation opened his mouth, but only a hoarse rasping came over his lips, no words. Okay, new addition to his ever growing list: his throat felt like sandpaper had scraped over his flesh. But it did make England look over his shoulder at his brother, relief flashing in his emerald eyes as he saw he was awake again. "Hey, Cearul," he said softly. "How are you feeling?"

"Bad..." Ireland just rasped, curling up a little further. What had gotten him in this condition? He didn't quite remember. But England soon sparked his memory on the events of that morning. "Thank you for saving me back there," he said with a smile. "For a moment there, I thought you'd let me drown, but I guess that wasn't the case after all. You know, the Liffey is deeper than I thought... So really, thank you." Ireland just nodded and closed his eyes again, trying to get more words over his lips. " 'S okay... Worth it..." There was some rustling, then he felt a warm hand being pressed to his cheek, followed by England's voice. "You're warming up, I'll give you that, but you're not nearly warm enough to fall asleep again just yet, brother. Come on, open up your eyes." Ireland did as he said, too tired to protest, but also because he knew that he was right. England got on his knees beside the couch, inspecting his brother further before concluding, "You should've become warmer than this by now, though. You had hypothermia, but not so bad that you should still be this cold. But let's not dwell on that too long. If you go sit for a minute, I'll get you some tea. That should help get you warm in no-time." He then got up and went off to the kitchen, leaving Ireland to slowly push himself up into a sitting position. England came back quickly, handing the cup to his brother, who took a sip of it instantly, burning his lip in the process. Well, better burned than frozen, he decided. The rest of the tea he drank with slightly more caution as to not burn anything else. He wasn't much of a tea-drinker, but just the warmth felt great.

When he was finished and placed his cup on the coffeetable in front of him, England gently grabbed his arm, but firm enough to keep Ireland from pulling it back. Just one glance at his little brother's eyes told Ireland enough, and he paled as England pulled up his sleeve, exposing his lower arm and the many cuts that adorned his skin. "Cearul," he began slowly, a dominating tone is his voice that forced Ireland to look at him no matter how much he wanted to disappear at that moment. "Care to explain this to me?" Everything inside of Ireland seemed to crumble at that moment, and for a second he thought he'd throw up, but he managed to keep it together enough to answer softly. "I-I... I don't..." But then the words stuck in his throat like thorns, and he fell silent again. "You don't... what?" England demanded, staring his brother in the eyes, his green irises burning into him. There was anger in them, pure rage, but dominating were the worry and fear. "Cearul, this isn't healthy! Hell, you're cutting yourself, and frequently as well, judging by the amount of scars." But Ireland shook his head, trying to pull his arm back, but England didn't let go. "I'm okay, Arthur," he tried to convince his little brother. "Really, I'm okay."

"Since when is severely depressed and _cutting yourself_ okay?" England immediately demanded, raising his voice. "Cearul, don't lie to me! Don't lie to _yourself!_" Ireland sighed and shook his head again, still protesting. "I know, I know! It's just... I'm getting there, okay?" England didn't look convinced, so Ireland went on, "I mean, I... I haven't picked up a knife in a week yet, it's been days since I've last been drinking and-"

"Alcohol as well?" England breathed, sounding horrified, slowly letting go of Ireland's arm again, who pulled it back and under the blankets again immediately. "Damnit! Well, that explains why you're not over that hypothermia quite yet: your body's in a terrible condition, of course it can't properly heal itself!" When there came no reply, he sat down next to Ireland, his emerald eyes still fixed on him. "Why would you... Why would you do this to yourself, Cearul?" Ireland sighed, curling up again, still sitting up. How would he answer that? What _could_ he answer, if he didn't know himself yet? Even after six months, he didn't quite understand why he did what he did. He only had theories, none of them confirmed yet. So he just answered, explaining the most likely of his theories. "Because the only time I feel anything is with a good amount of alcohol in my system. And even then, sometimes, there's still just _nothing_ inside of me. And when that happens, or I don't have anything with me... I cut. I'd rather feel pain than nothing at all. And do I not deserve the pain after everything I've done and everything I failed to do?" He looked at England for a moment, who was staring at him wide-eyed, not believing his ears at that moment. How could the strong Ireland have fallen this deep? The older brother just shrugged. "But as I said, I'm getting there. Haven't had alcohol or a blade all week. Also..." He looked away now, a shiver going down his spine and his stomach doing another somersault as he thought about this. "Please... just don't tell Dylan and Allistair. I can handle this without them breathing down my neck, watching my every move."

For a moment, silence fell, growing heavier and more uncomfortable with the second, until England sighed. "I won't," he said softly. "I promise. This stays between us. You're lucky that I know what a depression like this feels like, otherwise I'd have called them before you'd even woken up. Help is necessary, too much of it a death sentence. But you _have _to let me help you." Ireland nodded slowly, agreeing. Another silence came, then broken by the Irishman himself. "Why would you even help? I've only been a burden to you, I've hurt you and betrayed you over the past year. _Why _help me?"

"Because," England answered, placing his hand on Ireland's shoulder. "As I said this morning, no matter what we do to eachother, at the end of the day we're still brothers, always will be. We care, even if we don't want to. And remember one of those letters Allistair sent when he was still at the front? _'You know what the funny thing about brothers is? They need eachother_'. I need you, Cearul, and you need me. It's that simple." Ireland nodded again. He could accept that reasoning, it seemed true enough. When he let out a shaky breath, only just managing to keep his teeth from clattering now that he wasn't talking anymore, England pulled the blankets aside and went to sit against Ireland, pulling his older brother against his chest and wrapping his arms around him. Ireland stiffened at this, but didn't say a word. And as he readjusted the blankets, England sighed, "I don't like it either, but there's this thing called body-to-body heating, you know? Apparently works really well. Now don't start complaining, git." But Ireland didn't even hear the end of it. With all that warmth suddenly surrounding him, he'd fallen asleep again within seconds, his head resting against England's shoulder.

* * *

The next morning, Ireland awoke with a fever. It was to be expected, with how long he'd spend in the freezing water and how bad he'd been taking care of his body lately. He wasn't healing as fast as he should, but lucky for him, England hadn't left yet, and wasn't about to go anytime soon. England knew very well how deep one could sink if they didn't get help. Ireland had been in this mess for six months now, and it was more than enough. "It's only the twenty-first of December," he mumbled to himself as he prepared breakfast for the both of them. "I'll get him out of this by the start of next year!" He then went back into the livingroom, where he'd forced his older brother to lie down again. He'd been too stubborn not to do anything, until England nearly hit him over the head to knock him out, just so he wouldn't do anything to exhaust himself. Being stubborn like that was a family trait. He sat down beside Ireland and handed him a simple bowl of cereal. Nothing too heavy for breakfast, not with him sick like this. Ireland just took it and mumbled a soft thanks before drinking a bit of the milk in it first, glad to have something fresh and cold down his throat. Then he laughed for a moment, surprising England, who stared at him with wide eyes. "Y'know," the older nation began. "It's funny. Yesterday, I was too cold. Today, I'm too warm. I just never seem to get it right, do I?"

"What I think is even more funny," England put in with a smirk. "Is that all of yesterday after the incident and today, your English has been perfect, though still accented of course. Does that always happen when you're ill?" Ireland shrugged. He hadn't even noticed that until now, but it was true. For starters, he said 'you' instead of 'ye', which was a huge improvement already if you had to ask England. A silence fell between the brothers as they slowly ate their breakfast, until Ireland mentioned softly, "We've switched roles, you know." England looked up and raised an eyebrow at this, wondering what he meant. The nation explained without even having to be asked. "The first half of this year, you were the depressed one, and I was only looking forward to a bright future of independence. Now you're the cheerful one who sees the bright side of it all despite the war still going on, and I'm the one stuck in a deep dark pit. As I said, we've switched roles." England nodded slowly. It was true. And it would end just the same, he was sure. "Soon enough, you'll be fine again, Cearul," he promised. "I'll make sure of that. Dylan and Allistair helped me, and I'll help you." He then got an idea, and looked at his brother with shining emerald eyes. "And you know what? It'll be Christmas in three days, and I don't know about you, but I'm not willing to break our record of never being seperated during the holidays if we can help it. In '14, Al was in France, so of course he couldn't come. But aside from then and some other wars, we've always been together during Christmas and most other holidays."

"So?" Ireland asked, staring at him questioningly. He still didn't quite understand where he was getting at. England cheerfully went on, "Well, you're coming with me in one or two days -whenever you've recovered enough- and we're going to celebrate with the whole family again, like we should. Allistair will be overjoyed to see you again -yes, _see_\- and Dylan will be glad, too. And it will be good for you as well." Ireland seemed to consider this for a moment, not entirely sure wether he wanted that or not. Sure, he'd like to see Wales and Scotland again after all that time, but would they really be so happy to see him? He wasn't so sure. But then he suddenly noticed one thing England had mentioned, and he stared at him wide-eyed. "Did you just say Al can see again?"

With the biggest smile Ireland had seen on him in years, England nodded. "Not without his glasses, which he doesn't seem to like to wear at all -he constantly says they ruin his looks, vain chap- but he can see again. Colours, shapes, you name it. No tiny details yet, though. Faces are still a blur to him, he told me, but he can easily make out who's who between the three of us at least. He's really close to recovering completely, finally." Hearing this sparked just the tiniest bit of joy in Ireland's heart again, the first he'd felt in months. At least his little brothers were all doing just fine. But at the same time, it stung. They were all doing fine _without him_. Actually, they'd been fine from the moment he'd stopped having contact with them. Perhaps it meant they were better off without him...? "Cearul!" England suddenly said, and he shook his brother out of his thoughts with his sudden exclamation. "Oh, I know that look. Don't even _think_ about it. We need you, we all do. We've all been worried about you, you know?" He then shook his head and got up. "Now you go get some more rest, I'll call them and tell them we'll be coming home in a few days. And don't worry -I made a promise, right? I'm not telling them anything." Ireland nodded, feeling rather reassured by that. He and England had discussed the matter more the day before, and had come to the conclusion they'd try to fix this mess with just the two of them at first. If that didn't work, Ireland had given his little brother his consent to tell Wales and Scotland as well, and they'd all work on it from there on. But for now, it was just the two of them.

* * *

Two days later, in the evening, England and Ireland arrived in London. When they went inside, Ireland was almost instantly hugged by Scotland, who was gripping him so tightly, his older brother couldn't breathe for a moment. "Cearul, honestly, where've ye been? It's been half a year, ye know!" Ireland tried to relax at the sudden, crushing hug, but had a little trouble doing so. After a moment, he just put his arms around Scotland as well, and apologised. "I know, I should've... Well, called ye at least." Scotland then let go of him again and inspected him, mocking a grimace. "Oh, Old Man, I wish I could say ye look good. But even after thirty months o'not seein' ye..." He shook his head. "Nope. A mess." Ireland huffed, looking his younger brother in the eyes. The glasses really didn't look too good on him, but on the other hand, perhaps it was just because he had to get used to it. "Same to ye, lad. Tell yer eyes to recover completely soon." Scotland just shook his head and explained, "Nah, they won't. Damaged beyond repair, I'm afraid. They will get better than this, I hope, but ne'er what they used to be anymore." Ireland nodded. Well, he expected as much, though for the sake of his little brother, he'd hoped things would be different.

Then Wales came into the room, for a moment just staring at his older brother disapprovingly. After a moment, Ireland averted his gaze, shame flooding his heart as he saw the accusing glance the Welshman shot him. There was an uncomfortable silence between the two, until Wales walked up to Ireland and put his arms around him, not exactly a loving hug, but definitely not cold and emotionless either. "It's good to see you again, Cearul," he mumbled. "And don't you ever disappear like that again, bastard. You had us all worried sick, you know?" Ireland just sighed and nodded, "I know, I'm sorry. I just..." But Wales shook his head and silenced him, then inspected his brother thoroughly with his gaze, concluding, "Have you lost weight or something? Your face and shoulders look thinner somehow... Skinny almost." For a moment, Ireland just didn't know how to reply to this, but eventually he just shrugged and explained, "After the rising, food became a little scarce, so it's true that I may not have been able to eat well for a while... I wouldn't really know, however."

"Well, as I said. You're looking almost skinny. Work on it." Ireland almost laughed at how serious his little brother sounded, but he surpressed this, knowing it wouldn't do anything to help Wales' mood or his attitude towards his oldest brother. Instead he just nodded again and promised he would. Then Wales just beckoned for England and Ireland to follow him, stating they were just on time: dinner was ready.

* * *

After dinner, Ireland went to make his bed and get his room ready. After all, he would stay until the new year, and that asked for some minor preparations. His absence gave his younger brothers the chance to talk about him freely, and especially Wales wasn't particularly positive. "Have you even taken a good look at him?" he huffed to neither of hir brothers in particular. "He's a true mess, not the sarcastic kind you called him, Allistair." Scotland just shrugged and mumbled, "Well, it ain't like I can look at him in full detail, so how should I know? An' besides, I may have sounded sarcastic, but I wasn't." Wales let out a sigh and shook his head. "I'm worried about him," he confessed eventually. "I mean, he looks like he hasn't been taking care of himself at all! The things you _couldn't _notice, Al, would be his slightly bloodshot eyes and the dark circles under them. Months of very irregular and short sleeping, obviously. Then the way his cheekbones are... well, _prominent_, to be mild about it. Surely that can't _all _be because of the rising? Sure, food was rather scarce, but there's more to this than just that, I can tell. And then _his eyes..._" At this, he let his shoulders hang and shook his head again, slowly. "A mask can cover one's face, but not the eyes. And despite his smiles earlier this evening, his eyes were just _dead_. There was absolutely nothing in them, nothing! He's wearing a mask. I can only wonder how many layers we have to go through, but I know with a certainty that what we'll find beneath them is broken and miserable."

Scotland nodded and sighed. "He's depressed, I could tell that much." At this, England got up, earning a stare from both his older brothers, and as he walked away, he simply said, "I'll just go see how he's doing now." In truth, his gut told him something wasn't quite right at that moment, and it wasn't just because of the conversation he'd just listened to. Quietly he went upstairs to the guest room Ireland would be using for the next weeks. When he carefully opened the door, he saw Ireland sitting on his bed, looking out the window. He went in then, closing the door behind him. Ireland didn't even look up as his little brother asked, "So how are you feeling now, Cearul?" The older nation just shrugged and answered, "Well, better than when I was alone at least." Suddenly, England noticed how his brother was holding his right wrist with his left hand as he still didn't look England in the eye. Sitting down beside Ireland, the younger brother demanded, "Cearul, show me your arm."

"Wha-? But-!" Ireland spluttered for a moment, before sighing and holding out his arm to his little brother, who immediately pulled up his sleeve, his eyes then falling on the angry red, bleeding cut on his wrist. It was near the artery, but didn't cross it. His heart sank at this, and he looked Ireland in the eyes. "Oh, _Cearul,_" was all he could get over his lips as his brother shook his head and pulled his arm free. "I know, 'how could I?' Answer is, I don't know. I don't know why I suddenly started again! But I-" His sentence was cut short when England pulled him into a tight hug, his shoulders tense as he tried to surpress his emotions. "I know we've only just started working on this," he whispered, at which Ireland relaxed for reasons he didn't even know himself. "And I know I shouldn't expect you to stop already. But I just _hoped_..." Then, much to his surprise, Ireland slowly put his arms around him as well, returning the hug in silence, placing his head against England's shoulder. In silence they held eachother like that, and England could feel how Ireland graduadly grew more tense, his grip on his little brother tightening, gritting his teeth. And then he felt a warm liquid on his shoulder, followed shortly by a muffled sob.

* * *

**Well, at least Scotland can see again and Ireland is finally getting rid of emotions, right...? Of course, the depression is not nearly over yet, unfortunately.**

**Anyway, I hope you liked it, and thanks a lot for reading! And, as always, reviews are very much appreciated~**


	25. Chapter 25

**Hello there, I got a new chapter ready~**

**At first I thought this was about how long the whole story would be: roughly 25 chapters. But guess what? There's still five years left for me to describe in here!...*sigh* So it's going to be long. Not to mention, I'm already considering a sequel, _Trouble_, about (obviously) the Troubles in Northern Ireland.**

**Also, since it'll be Halloween, I'm also considering doing a little Halloween spin-off like _Drinking Together_. That is, if I manage to get enough inspiration in time -_-'**

**So... yup. There's going to be a lot yet. Also, as usual, thank you for the review, That One Guest! If you liked that bonding, you'll like this chapter as well, I'm sure. Not too much angst again quite yet.**

**I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

The following morning, when Ireland decided to take a quick shower before going downstairs, Wales' words of the evening before were still stuck in his head. So, after taking off his shirt, he went to stand in front of the mirror, and he was shocked with what he saw. Damn, his little brother was right. His ribs were awfully _visible_, he could count them just looking at them. And indeed, his shoulders were rather thin as well. When had _this _happened? It was the truth that he had rarely skipped a meal, but then again, what was his definition of 'a meal' these days? One slice of bread? A mere apple? Probably not much more than that, now that he thought about it. He'd have to work on that as well. His list was only growing: the cutting had priority, he had to stop that as soon as possible. Then there was the alcohol and the numbness, and now his weight, or rather, the lack of it. "What have I gotten myself into...?" he sighed to himself as he turned on the shower. "Of all the deep, dark pits, I've reached the bottom of them all..." Except for drugs, then. At least he hadn't resorted to that as well, because then he'd just about have given up on himself by now. But, he told himself, he'd finally managed to cry the previous night, however shortly. What a thing to be happy about, but he was. It meant the emotions weren't yet locked up inside of him, never to be let out. It wasn't too late yet. "Oh, who am I kidding," he muttered to himself, stepping under the steady stream of warm water. "It was already 'too late' when this whole mess started..."

* * *

England was already downstairs, preparing the breakfast table. With all the economical trouble due to the war, they didn't really have anything to make a real Christmas feast for breakfast _or_ dinner, but they'd try. Most important was that at least now, the whole family was together, which wasn't what they'd expected. They had honestly thought Ireland wouldn't come.

"Wha', so ye nearly drowned a second time?" Scotland asked as his little brother told him about what happened the day he came to Ireland. "See the importance of swimming now, laddie? Tell ye what, when this war ends, I'll teach ye." England rolled his eyes and sighed. "You're not even letting me finish," he muttered to his older brother, who snickered and shook his head. Oh, how he loved to tease his brothers, and infuriate them in the process. England just went on, "What I tried to tell you, is that Cearul actually jumped right in after me! I thought he'd let me drown, probably thinking something along the lines of 'good riddance', but he didn't!" Scotland shook his head now, protesting, "O'course not, he'd never do that! Look, lad, he might hate ye as a country -and with reason, I have to admit- but as a brother, he loves ye more than anythin'. Seems to be that way with everyone in this family: we cannae stand the bloody sight of eachother, but woe to all who dare touch our brothers! Oh, they're gonna get their bloody arses kicked straight into oblivion, 'specially if they do something to our _little_ brothers!" He laughed for a moment and looked at England, his blue eyes filled with warmth. "I have that too, y'know. Bein' more protective over you an' Dyland than I am of Cearul. An' Dylan's protective of you more than of me an' Cearul! O'course, the Old Man has that with _all_ of us, bein' the oldest. If ye had a younger sibling, Artie, ye would understand just fine, no need to be so surprised o'what he did, savin' ye like that."

England just nodded and agreed softly. "Well, I do know that feeling with my colonies and ex-colonies, yes. Especially America..." Then suddenly the door opened and Wales came in, rubbing his eyes and grumbling a bit. "Bloody hell," he muttered. "Ye should've woken me... bastards." Scotland only smiled wider and said in a sing-song voice, "Merry Christmas to you, too, laddie!" Wales only muttered back a response, lacking all sense of the holiday's 'merriness'. But alas, that was simply Wales during mornings. He just sat down at the table, slumped over it with his eyes closed. Well, England concluded, _someone _didn't have a good night's sleep. "Have ye seen Cearul 'lready?" Scotland asked his younger brother as he placed four cups on the table. " 'M hungry. Lad really has to come down soon, so we can fin'ly eat!" Wales hummed and answered quickly and quietly that he was taking a shower, resulting in Scotland grunting. "Damnit, Cearul, be quick 'bout it!"

"Did ye say some'in, Al?" suddenly came Ireland's voice, who entered the kitchen with a towel still in his hand, his ginger hair dark with water. "I'm here, if ye hadn't noticed." He sat down on the chair beside Wales and continued drying his hair off with the towel quickly. "So dun'worry lad: my Christmas present to ye this year, is ye bein' able to eat before ye starve."

"Thank ye, Old Man!" Scotland laughed, taking his place at the table and grabbing some bread for himself instantly. England followed him more slowly and wished his oldest brother a merry Christmas quietly before beginning to eat as well, and as did Ireland. Only Wales didn't seem in the mood for breakfast, with his face still planted on the table and not looking up for even a second. Neither of the three others really wanted to say anything to him. Wales was, after all, known for his morning moodswings: either he woke up as the cheeriest person alive, or he'd prefer to _skin_ you alive if you tried to talk to him. This morning, even though it was a holiday, appeared to be the latter. They realised how wrong they were about that a few minutes later, when suddenly there was a soft snore in the room. Of _course _he'd fallen back asleep just like that! Scotland began laughing loudly, leaning over the table and patting his little brother on the shoulder. "Oi, laddie!" he managed to say between the laughter. "Now's not the time for that, y'know? C'mon, wake up Dylan!"

Wales opened his eyes slowly, grunting a bit. He did _not _like to be woken _at all._ But then he sniffed, and asked drowsily, " 'S that egg...?" Scotland just laughed again, this time softer, and held out the bowl with freshly cooked eggs to him. "There ye go, lad. Dun'fall asleep in the middle of eatin' it, will ye?" Wales hummed, sticking his hand into the bowl without much grace, grabbing one of the eggs and then placed it onto his plate... only to lie down on it again, apparently using the egg as his pillow. Ireland, too, chuckled softly at this, pulled his little brother up against the back of his chair and kept him in place by holding a hand against his chest and shoulder. "Open yer eyes, lad," he said softly, smiling. "C'mon now, open them up. It's ten in the morning, ye wee idiot." Slowly, Wales obeyed, blinking open his eyes again, though not responding in any other way. Ireland then quickly turned to England, who sat closest to the pot, and told him, "Arthur, quick, give 'im a cup o'coffee!" England nodded and poured a cup for his older brother, handing it to Ireland, who added a teaspoon of sugar to it. "There," he said almost triumphantically. "That oughta wake 'im up!"

Much as with the egg, Wales sniffed the cup that was placed in front of him, grabbing it and taking a sip. After the fourth sip, his eyes opened slightly further, and his brothers felt assured that at least he wouldn't fall asleep _again_ now. "Well, now that we're _all_ here," England said, surpressing laughter as he looked at Wales. "Merry Christmas, brothers. Let's hope it's the last we have to spend during this war!" Scotland nodded, and Ireland mumbled a soft, "Amen to that, Artie," while Wales gave a soft, agreeing hum, still not quite awake. When they were halfway through their breakfast, the phone rang, and Ireland was the one to answer it. A way too familiar, way too annoying voice spoke the moment he picked the phone up. "Hey there, British dude! Merry Christmas, man!" Ireland held the phone away from his ear for a moment, then answered, "You too, Alfred. An' it's the 'Irish dude' yer talkin' to." He shook his head a bit, both annoyed and amused, then asked, "An' fer Heaven's sake, why're ye callin' this early? Isn't it nighttime at yer place?"

"It is, but I just came home from this amazing party, so I figured I'd call you guys! Tell the three British dudes I said hi, okay? Well, I'm goin' now, gotta get some sleep!" And with that, he just ended the call, and Ireland placed the phone back before going back to his chair. "Alfred says hi," he sighed, sitting down again. "And wishes y'all a good holiday." As he watched his plate, where only half a slice of bread still lay, he wondered if that would be enough for breakfast: one egg, one slice of bread. Probably not, considering how thin he was already. Almost reluctantly, he grabbed a second slice of bread and smeared some butter onto it. Surely _that _must be enough? After all, these were all things he'd had to work on graduadly. Lessen the alcohol intake and the cutting first, work towards stopping. Slowly starting to eat properly again, nothing too fast. If he could manage those things, then at least physically, he should be alright again soon. Right?

* * *

The second challenge for the Irishman came later in the afternoon, when all four sat in the livingroom and were chatting away, and Scotland suddenly went into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of wine and four glasses. "This is shit fer stuck-up wee pricks," he laughed as he opened the bottle. "Which we're not. Best get rid of it as soon as possible, aye? Artie, next time, go get some beer instead." England mocked a small pout as he stared at his brother and mumbled, "And here I thought I was finally doing something right! It's a holiday, one might expect to have something a _little _fancier than _beer,_ right?" Scotland chuckled, pouring glasses for all four of them, then raised his own for a small toast. "To a good ending of a terrible year, aye? Let's hope the next will see the end of all this chaos!" Wales, England and Ireland all agreed, tapped their glasses against his and then eachother's, and began drinking it. This wine, he had to admit, was tasty stuff. A very rich flavour... England had outdone himself with this one. It was probably from somewhere halfway into the last century, nearly fifty years old at least. And _God_, how he loved that slight burning of alcohol down his throat. The whole family had always claimed to have alcohol in their veins instead of blood, and it was probably true as well. They drank it as though it were water. But now, England shot his older brother a glance that said, _'Watch yourself'_, and Ireland gave a tiny, quick nod. He would _not _do anything stupid this evening, he'd make sure of that.

Scotland noticed how his older brother was almost anxious with the glass of wine in his hands, almost as if he was doing something illegal and hoped he wouldn't get caught. Especially later, after he'd finished his first glass and Scotland offered him a second one, he hesitated a moment before nodding and thanking him. He paled a bit as he was drinking, a hint of fear in his eyes even though he was smiling and laughing along with his younger brothers. How obvious must it be, Scotland wondered, if even he could see it? Eventually he leaned forward to him a bit and asked, "Hey, Old Man, ye alright?" Ireland looked up quickly, startled by this sudden question, and stammered, "Y-yes, I... I'm fine. I just think... perhaps I'm not exactly over that illness quite yet. I feel a little... off, but fine." England blinked at him with slightly narrowed eyes and put in, "Well, it wouldn't surprise me. That was some serious pneumonia, and even for a nation, healing in just two days is quick." He then leaned over to him and placed his hand on his forehead to check his temperature. After a few moments he pulled back and shook his head. "Just a little bit warm, nothing bad. At you worst, you were just over 40 degrees, so this is nothing." Something about the way he was talking seemed off to Scotland. In his year of blindness, he'd learned to pick up really small details in another's voice: tiny shivers when nervous, high-pitched undertone when afraid, a certain vibration when angry or really on the edge of tears. And here he heard the shiver of a lie: Ireland was wearing his masks, like Wales had mentioned the evening before, and England was in on the lie. He just wondered... why would they both lie about Ireland's condition, wether physical or mental? But he said nothing about it and leaned back in his chair again, inspecting the rest of the evening with narrowed eyes. Just what was going on here?

* * *

Somewhere early in the morning, still at night, Wales lay awake in his bed. He, too, had noticed the thing going on between England and Ireland, and he was constantly worrying about it. They were hiding something, something important, and he was determined to find out. When he looked at his clock and could just make out the time in the darkness of his room, he sighed and got out of bed. It was two in the morning and he hadn't slept a wink yet. Quietly, he made his way to the bathroom to drink a bit of water, then went over to England's bedroom. Opening the door just the slightest, he saw his little brother sprawled out on his bed, fast asleep. At least, he concluded from this, what he was hiding wasn't so bad his conscience kept him awake at night. That was reassuring. He then passed the door to the guest room Scotland was occupying, and he didn't even have to open the door there to know how his older brother was doing: snoring away, like every night. He wasn't so loud that he kept others awake at night, but he sure wasn't a quiet sleeper. Wales didn't dawdle there too long as he went on to the end of the hall, where Ireland slept. The moment he opened the door, he was met with soft mumbling and occasional moaning, and he looked at his brother instantly. He was tossing around, rolling from one side to the other, frowning in his sleep and his lips moving almost soundlessly. Wales closed the door carefully and knelt down next to him. Much like his younger brother had done the evening before, he placed his hand on his forehead: after all, this was exactly the way England had been acting in his sleep a year ago when he'd been so sick for so long. But though his skin was clammy, it wasn't warm, so he didn't have a fever.

"What's going on in there, brother?" he sighed, whispering as he held his hand on his brother's head. He looked absolutely terrified. "Hm? Having a nightmare, are we? Well don't worry, everything's alright." He then sat down on the edge of his bed, watching him as he kept tossing and turning, and tried stroking his hair a bit to calm him down as he kept whispering to him. He didn't talk about anything in particular, but just the sound of a familiar voice might be calming, he figured. At one point, Ireland began pleading in his sleep, his voice almost inaudible. "Nnn...nnnooo, pleassse... Nnnoo..." He sounded so agonised, Wales let his shoulder hang and sighed, feeling bad for him. "What are they doing to you, brother?" he whispered. "What are they doing that's this bad?" Suddenly, Ireland yelped in fear or pain or both, and began thrashing about even more. Slightly panicking, Wales leaned over him and held his shoulders. When that didn't help keep him still quite yet, he lay down on his chest, keeping his arms in place to stop him from moving. At this rate, he might hurt himself if Wales didn't stop him. "P-please, ssstop," he pleaded desperately. "S-ssstop iiiit..." Wales bit his lip as his brother squirmed beneath him, but he didn't let go. What was he dreaming about that was so terrifying? "Don't do it..." the sleeping Irishman went on, his voice quivering. "Don't do it... Put it down..." _Put what down? _Wales wondered. _A weapon? A-a gun, or a sword, or a knife? What are they doing to you?_ Something told him his way of thinking wasn't quite correct, but he didn't know what else it could be. But Ireland soon gave him an idea. "I c-can't... shouldn't... nnn...no..." Wales looked at him with widened eyes as he suddenly understood. _What is he doing to __**himself**__...?_

In the darkness, he could see tears shimmering in the corners of Ireland's eyes, and he leaned closer to him, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead. "Oh, Cearul, I promise you, it's alright... It's alright, brother." Eventually, Ireland stopped squirming, and Wales let go of him again. He was still shaking all over, and the tears that had been in his eyes now trailed down his cheeks as he shakily whispered, "I'm ssso sssoooorrryyy..." His voice was slurred with sleep, but he just kept on apologising. "So, so sssorryyy... I'm sorry..."

"Sorry for what, Cearul?" Wales asked, then shook his head. No, that wouldn't help his brother at all. He made up his mind and whispered, "You don't have to be sorry, brother dear. You've done nothing wrong, I promise. No one's angry with you, you didn't do anything wrong. It's okay, you don't have to be sorry. Everything's fine." Ireland just kept on sniffling softly, shaking his head slowly, not believing what his little brother told him. Still, Wales kept reassuring him that everything was okay. And then, suddenly, he realised that this was exactly what lay beneath all those masks his brother wore during the day. Beneath all the happiness, the smiles and the 'I'm fine's, he was exactly this: shattered and lost in misery. He brought his hand to his head again, stroking his brother's ginger hair rythmically as he kept on whispering to him. "You'll be fine, Cearul," he promised him. "No one is angry with you, I swear. No one will hurt you, no one hates you. We all love you. You're the most important thing in the world to us, do you know that? Our big brother. We love you so much, so please, don't you worry about anything. None of that will ever change, no matter what."

It took him some time before he'd gotten Ireland calm again, but once he was, the Irishman looked as if nothing had happened and he'd slept that calmly all night. By now, Wales was exhausted, and he couldn't even bring himself to get up anymore. With a glance at his sleeping brother, he sighed, asking, "Say, Cearul? Would you..." He yawned, then finished. "Would you mind if I slept here with you tonight?" After a little while, Ireland shook his head a little, shifting in his sleep as if to make room for his little brother. Wales smiled a little, then got under the cover beside his older brother, putting his arms around him. He could hear Ireland sigh contently, and he relaxed completely at this, his nightmares far away by now. Wales, too, quickly fell into a deep sleep, smiling as he thought to himself, _I did well..._

* * *

**So, I hope you liked this little bit of fluff before things go downhill again. I sure enjoyed writing it~! Having a very graphic imagination like mine, things can be a bit... awkward or even creepy when writing. But with scenes like this, it's only cute and warm and fluffy inside my mind, so I really enjoy these scenes!**

**Thank you very much for reading, and please leave a review~! (really people, it's not that much asked, right...? *insert puppy-dog eyes here*)**


	26. Chapter 26

**Hi again! Sorry for the longer wait, but school decided to give me an exam. I'm only in the fourth year (of the six) of highschool but apparently, we will finish some subjects this year already. Studying eighty pages for one test is very new to me, so I've been really busy with that. I did find the time to write inbetween all that, but not enough to post this chapter earlier (or write a Halloween spin-off, like I wanted -_-)**

**Also, thank you for the reviews, favourites and follows, That One Guest/Crossfire, Karano and Kintoki Kin!**

**So without further ado, here's chapter 26!**

**I do not own Hetalia.**

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If he knew, he would tell them all exactly what was going on and why he did what he did. He would explain in full detail why he couldn't bring himself to stop doing this over and over again, what brought him to believe this was all for the best. He wouldn't hesitate to say he needed help in doing this, because obviously, he couldn't stop by himself. He would confess that without help, he would only continue further down the path of selfdestruction until it led to his death. But he didn't know what was wrong, he didn't understand why he did all this. He didn't know why he couldn't simply put the blades down and keep himself in one piece. And though he knew he needed help, he couldn't bring himself to ask for it: had he not been a burden enough by now? He would have to do this on his own, not just for his pride, but for the well-being of those he held dear.

And so, once again, Ireland brought the small knife to his skin, pressing the blade into it softly until his skin broke and the metal dug into it. He'd keep this cut shallow and thin: he didn't want to bleed for too long, not with his brothers nearby. Because how would he explain it, if they suddenly saw his wrist bleeding?

The blade was roughly two millimeters into his skin, and he wouldn't make it any deeper than that. Slowly, he pulled it across his wrist, the blade leaving a thin red trail as it cut through his skin. He found the whole affair repulsive, and he felt sick to the core everytime he even thought about this. But how could he bring himself to stop? It had become some sort of addiction, a need. He didn't like it, not at all. On the contrary even, but it was still an addiction. But now, everytime he did this, that one dream would surface again, making it even worse.

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Ireland felt as if he was pinned to a wall, unable to move and get away. Before him sat a young man, approximately in his late twenties by the way he looked. His wild, ginger hair was covering his face from Ireland's perspective, but he didn't need to see the man's face to know it would be his own. The man sniffled a bit from time to time, his shoulders trembling as he clutched a tiny silver object in his right hand. From where he stood, Ireland couldn't exactly make out what it was, but deep down he knew he didn't even want to. Suddenly, he saw a tear rolling down the man's face before dripping onto the ground. However, it was a dark, sticky red that left a trail over the man's face. "Bloody hell," he whispered, "Why can't I ever do something right? Today I broke his confidence... What will I break next? His neck?" A sob made it past his lips, and he added, his voice high-pitched with emotion, "Why can I only hurt them...?"

Ireland shook his head and wanted to walk over to his side. "No, please," he begged him. "Don't say that, it's not true! No..." But the man lifted the small object he held in his hand, inspecting it for a moment: a knife. "I wonder... who is this going to kill? Me, or one of them? Who can guarantee that I won't stick it into their hearts one day, if I seem to have no trouble breaking them?" Ireland fought to move now, but he couldn't. He could only watch and talk to him, but his words seemed to be lost into the air the moment he spoke them, never reaching the ears of the one he spoke to. "Please, stop!" he pleaded with him. "Just stop it! Don't do it! P-put it down!" But even though he spoke, the sound didn't seem to go over his lips at all, and the man hadn't heard him. And so, he brought the knife to his chest, pointing it straight against his heart. Ireland shivered in fear and disgust as the man murmured to himself, "Better me than them... better me than them..." And with those words, he plunged the knife into his chest, blood pouring out of the wound as he collapsed, convulsing on the ground and blood bubbling at his lips. Now, Ireland could see his face, and it was indeed his own. He wanted to scream, look away, run and hide, anything to not have to see the light fade in his own eyes as he drew his last breath. His own breath stuck in his throat now, and he felt tears welling up in his eyes as he realised this was exactly what would happen one day. One day very soon. "I c-can't die..." he whispered to reassure himself. "I shouldn't be able to die... No, this can't be real. This isn't real. N-no..." Suddenly, he felt two hands on his shoulder, and a terrifyingly familiar pair of voices say at the same time, "We can't die, you say?" He looked around, and nearly screamed in fear as he saw Brittania and England standing there, both covered in blood. His mother was pale as death and thin as a twig, England had a deep gash over his abdomen from where blood slowly dripped onto the ground around his feet. And then he realised them showing up like this was a cruel reminder of their mortality. And he knew he would die one day, and it would be slow and painful and _by his own hand._

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As he recalled this dream, Ireland felt nausea welling up quickly, and he clasped his hand over his mouth to prevent himself from throwing up. What was he _doing?!_ His heart beat painfully against his ribs as he looked down at his knife, a tiny red line on the shining silver blade. He was killing himself, that was what he was doing. He was slowly killing himself, one cut at a time, and it horrified him to no end. On shaking legs, he got up from the bed he sat on, staggering over to his bedroom door. He leaned against it for a moment, but the moment he saw a drop of crimson blood fall onto the carpet beneath his feet, he swung it open and went down the stairs quickly, knife still clutched in his hand. His breath was coming in shallow, quick gasps. He knew he was hyperventilating right now, and that he had to calm himself, but he couldn't control it. He stumbled into the hallway, feeling tears prick in his eyes already as he looked at the door to the livingroom. He was going to do this, and he was going to do this _now _before it was too late.

He slowly pushed the door open and went inside. All three of his younger brothers sat on the couch, reading a book or a newspaper. Neither of them looked up until Ireland closed the door behind him, leaning against it. From one hand, blood dripped onto the ground slowly while in the other he held a bloodstained knife. His chest heaved as he struggled to breathe properly, and silent tears made their way down his jaws in great numbers. Wales and Scotland stiffened in pure shock at seeing him like this, while England put his book aside and got up slowly. "Cearul...?" he whispered, unsure what to do right now. Ireland opened his mouth slightly, his lip quivering as he choked out, his voice barely above a whisper, "I-I need help..."

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Scotland watched in shocked silence as Ireland stood there, his whole body shaking and his breathing fast and shallow with panic. England got up and went to his side quickly, supporting him as it looked like he would collapse any second now. The silver object the Irishman was holding slipped from his fingers and clattered loudly onto the ground, and Scotland hoped he'd be able to actually see what it was. To him it was still a silver blur, and he bit the inside of his lip for this. Damn those eyes...

When England was within reach, Ireland practically jumped on him, putting his arms tightly around his shoulders and clinging to him as though his life depended on it. This surprised Scotland: had it been himself or Wales, he might have understood, but with everything that had happened between the oldest and the youngest of the brothers, especially over the past year, _this_ was about the last thing he'd expected either of them to do. "I-I'm so sorry," Ireland choked out, closing his eyes and hiding his face in the crook of England's neck, still trembling all over. It was getting worse even. "I'm so,_ so sorry..._ I just... I don't..." He couldn't get any proper sentence over his lips anymore by now, and England, trying very hard to remain calm, told him softly, "Breathe, Cearul, just breathe. Inhale deeply, then exhale slowly... Right, keep that up now." Ireland simply obeyed, trying to breathe properly again. The panic attack he seemed to be having didn't make it very easy for him, but after about a minute, he managed, and he relaxed a little and let go of England again. That was the moment Scotland noticed a dark red smear on the door, and also a stain on the back of England's shirt where Ireland had held him. _Blood._ What had happened?

"A-Arthur," Ireland whispered, his voice quivering as he spoke. "I-I just... don't _know_ how to stop this anymore a-an'... I... _please, help me._" When his older brother said this, the pieces of this puzzle clicked together in Scotland's mind. The object Ireland had just dropped was a knife, one he had just used to cut himself with, and if his words were anything to go by, he'd been doing this for a while now. And England was aware of it. Scotland looked to his side at Wales, who could only stare at the scene before him with wide eyes, shaking his head slowly and mumbling, "So all this time...? _This _is what they hid...? C-Cearul..." He then got up and slowly went over to his oldest brother. "Cearul?" he asked, his voice just above a whisper. "Why would you... why would you do this?" He carefully reached for the Irishman's left arm, grabbing it and pulling up his sleeve. Ireland didn't even protest or try to stop him in any way. And though Scotland couldn't see it well, he knew exactly what caused his little brother to stumble backwards in shock, a horrified gasp escaping his lips before clasping a hand over his mouth.

"That's the whole point," Ireland answered his brother's question, closing his eyes, his voice hoarse. "I just _don't know_ why, Dylan. I don't know..." A silence fell after that, in which no one looked at another, all uncomfortably staring at the floor until Scotland said softly, "Well... I say you three should all sit down so we can discuss this calmly, aye? C'mere, all of ye." His brothers nodded and did as he said slowly, Ireland taking place beside the Scot, not looking at him as he mumbled, "I'm sorry, Al..." Scotland narrowed his eyes at this and stared at his older brother with surprise in his blue eyes. "Yer sorry? For what?" Ireland now returned the stare, clearly not understanding how in the world Scotland could _not_ see what he was apologising for. After a moment the Scot concluded with a sigh, "Ye really apologise a lot, y'know? Always have. I think that's yer problem: guilt. Am I right?"

Ireland opened his mouth for a moment, but no sound came over his lips and he soon closed it again. Wales and England just looked at eachother briefly, both agreeing to their older brother's idea. And when a new silence threatened, Wales asked, "For how long has this been going on, Cearul?" Ireland just shrugged and cringed a bit, obviously having second thoughts about seeking help now that he got all these questions. "F-from the time I stopped talking to y'all, I think," he mumbled eventually with another shrug. "Not sure when exactly. Six months or so." Scotland could almost see Wales' brain working hard to come up with an exact date, and he paled a bit when he whispered, "But the last time you spoke to us before this week... was July 1." He then looked up and shot England a glance, who seemed to get it now, too. "The day Arthur nearly died. And if we mix that with the idea of guilt..."

"Surely you didn't think what happened was your fault?" England asked, eyes wide with surprise and worry. "Because it wasn't! A-and the rising before that had no effect on it, I swear. I would've... died, even if you hadn't rebelled. None of that was your fault." Ireland shook his head and protested, "O'course not, I didn't think 'twas! But... if ye want to stay on the subject of guilt, I guess I felt bad I hadn't been there to help. A-an' that I couldn't help Al an' Dylan deal with the aftermath. I came an' left again, just like that." He took a deep breath and looked at England now, his eyes glassy and his gaze apologetic. "An' ye know what? I didn't even care that ye could've died, lad. I didn't care about all the stress Allistair an' Dylan went through because of it. I just _didn't give a single bloody fuck._ An' I just... How could I not? As yer big brother, I should be concerned about yer well-bein', an' then ye died an' came back an' the others were goin' through a shitload of stress an' pain an' _I couldn't have cared less._" He sighed, trembling again after admitting this, and added in a whisper, "What kind o'fuckin' brother am I...?"

This confession led to another long and uncomfortable silence, one in which Ireland tried hard to not get up and leave, and the others tried to process his words. Eventually the Irishman shook his head and explained, "But ye know, even before that, I'd been numb. For half a year, I've hardly felt a thing. Most o'the time I'm just... completely devoid of emotion." At this, Scotland shook his head and protested, "No emotions, ye say? I think it's quite the opposite. Emotions work like black an' white, y'know? Black is empty, pure nothingness. In a way ye could say it doesn't exist. White may look like nothin', but in truth, it's every colour in existence mixed together. Ye might _think_ ye didn't feel a thing, but I think ye were feelin' so much, yer mind couldn't process it anymore. Not a blackout but a white-out." This reasoning left Ireland completely speechless, not only because it came so unexpected, but also because it was just _so true._ He shook his head slowly and pulled up his shoulders, sighing. "I was afraid o'that 'nothingness'. I guess I just figured, 'my current situation should hurt, so if I can't get that pain emotionally... perhaps I can feel physically instead?'" Closing his eyes, he concluded, "An' I guess that's why I started..._ this._

"But it has gone way too far an', most of all," he continued, his voice shaky again and his pale eyes full of fear. "I'm _terrified_. Terrified that it'll never stop, terrified that one day I might do somethin' stupid an' actually _die _in the process an' I..." He closed his eyes now, gritting his teeth as he fought back tears. "I don't want to die, not by my own hand, not like this! B-but at this rate it's i-inevitable... I _will _be my own death one day if this doesn't change, an' I'm just _so scared _of it, of _me_." His whole body was tense by now, and he clasped one trembling hand over his mouth as tears began to fall from his eyes slowly. Scotland bit his lip for a moment, surpressing his own tears by now, then pulled his older brother into a tight hug. "Bloody hell, Old Man!" he said sharply. "Ye dun'honestly think we'll let ye, do ye? We're goin' to keep ye with us 'til the end of time, y'know? Yer not escaping us anytime soon, I promise ye that." Ireland nodded slowly, hiding his face against Scotland's shoulder, clinging to him for dear life as sobs wrecked his body. It was true: his emotions hadn't vanished at all. They'd just become too much to bear.

Wales, who had been biting his lip as he watched this, joined in the hug eventually, and as did England, putting one arm around Ireland and the other around Scotland. It was that moment that made them all remember one important thing about eachother: they might not be eachother's favourite nations in the world, on the contrary even, but they were and would always be eachother's favourite people in the whole universe. Because no matter what, in the end they always had eachother, and could always count on their brothers.

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**Well, I hope you liked it, and the next chapter will be sooner, I promise! Heh heh... I hope. But knowing me, my whole weekend will be filled with writing and watching ABC's Once Upon a Time and then some movies... So it won't be long!**

**Thanks a lot for reading, and please leave a review on your way out (always appreciated a lot~)**


	27. Chapter 27

**First of all, thank you very much for the reviews, favourites and follows, Crossfire, Karano and B-The-Geek!**

**Since I've been asked: this fic will be more historic again in the next chapter or the one after that.**

**And then a little warning for this chapter: general silliness in the first half. Slightly graphic angst in the second half.**

**I do not own Hetalia.**

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"Ah, it's been too long since I've been here!" Scotland said as he opened the front door to his own house, Ireland behind him. The Irishman smiled and patted him on the shoulder, agreeing. "Nearly three years, right?" But Scotland shook his head and explained, "Nah, I've been here a few times in the past year with either Dylan or Arthur, to pick up some stuff or something like that. But we never stayed longer than two days at most." With a content sigh, he stepped inside and led his brother to the livingroom. Both grimaced at how dusty the place had become after three years of no cleaning, and less excited now, the Scot added, "An' here I thought I'd be homesick after the first year already... and that after three years of barely bein' here, it'd be even worse. Suddenly, I ain't so sure anymore..." Ireland went to stand beside him and sighed. They would have a lot of cleaning to do here, and though he'd expected as much, that didn't mean he'd been looking forward to it. But he was glad that after all this time, his younger brother could _finally _go home again. First he'd been off to war for a year, then blind and thus stuck with his brothers for eighteen months, then another six months he'd spend with England and Wales to help them out with work so neither of them would overwork themselves at this point. And despite the awful lot of work they had ahead of them, he looked truly happy to be home again.

He'd asked Ireland to come with him the day before, January 2, when both him and Wales left for their own capitals again. All four of them had agreed the best way to help their brother was to keep him under supervision, and they were going to do so now. And in a way, Scotland felt doing this was a way to repay his brother for all the time he'd been there for him when he just got back from the front. And he was happy to do it.

Ireland walked over to the bookshelf silently and looked at it, grimacing again. He didn't even dare touch it anymore: dust lay on it like a blanket. Then he turned around and looked at the couch, which was in no better state. Then, suddenly, he got an idea, and he grinned mischievously as he went over to Scotland's side again. "Ye know, lad, I think I know a way to rid the couch of quite some dust," he said to him, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him along before the Scot could even react. He jumped onto the couch, letting himself and his brother crash onto it on their backs. And the moment they landed on it, the dust seemed to explode from the furniture, a cloud of grey suddenly filling the room. Both nations started coughing as they inhaled it, and Ireland laughed loudly. "Gods, Al, just look at it! This is just absolutely ridiculous!" He soon controlled his breath enough to stop coughing, and his laughter was fading again as well, though the smile hadn't yet left his lips. That had been pure fooling around, and it had been just what he needed for a moment. But he looked to his side when he didn't hear Scotland's coughing fit subside even a bit, and nearly cursed himself when he saw his younger brother gasping for breath inbetween the coughs, one hand over his lips and the other clutching his chest. Ireland shot up immediately and placed a hand on his shoulders. "Lad, are y'alright? Allistair?"

But Scotland shook his head, choking out, "C-can't exactly br-breathe..." In an instant, Ireland was back on his feet, pulling Scotland with him as he made his way out of the house and into his backyard to get some fresh air away from all that dust. Outside, Scotland soon caught his breath again, and he inhaled deeply a few times before looking at his brother apologetically. "Sorry for that, Old Man. Prob'ly shoulda told ye, but... Well, ever since I got back from France, I haven't exactly reacted well to... ehm..." He trailed off and averted his gaze, and Ireland guessed, "Gas-like density of anything?" Scotland only nodded and added, "Honestly, I don't know if it's actually my lungs or just some stupid reaction because o'some trauma I'm not even aware of. But I get trouble breathin' a lot faster than before. Sorry for not tellin' ye 'bout that." Ireland shook his head and apologised for not even considering it. Of course, it was obvious something like what had happened back then would leave _some _sort of trauma. But then he raised an eyebrow at something Scotland had mentioned earlier, and he echoed, "Wait, 'a trauma you're not aware of'? Be honest, Allistair." At this, Scotland sighed, a smile playing at his lips. It didn't surprise him that Ireland would see through that one. "Yeah, well, one I _am_ aware of, then. I've also had a tendency to... dream 'bout what happened, nothing excluded. I see everything -the part where I could still see at least- hear everything and _feel everything_ in those dreams and it... It really sucks, to be mild 'bout it." Ireland placed a hand on his shoulder, just the slightest comforting gesture, then took him back inside to start cleaning together. They had hours, if not days, of work ahead of them.

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"So that's why you specifically asked me to come with you?" Ireland eventually asked his younger brother, who laughed at this. "Not really! It's really more to repay you for everything you've done for me. You were there when I needed help, I will be there when you need help. But," a grin now spread on his lips as he shot Ireland a sideward glance. "It _is _a very good excuse to not be alone all the time. _And_ to not have to do all this work on my own!" Ireland leaned over to him from where he was busy cleaning, giving him a playful smack on the back of his head, saying, "Ye sneaky bastard! Just don't want to clean up yer own house, do ye?" Suddenly he got a wet sponge in his face, and he spluttered the water out of his mouth immediately, the soapy liquid dripping from his face as he glared at his younger brother, who was smirking at him as he said, "Oh, bugger off, Old Man, and just clean up will ye?" He then turned away and started cleaning the coffee table again, where he'd almost gotten rid of all the dust. But Ireland grabbed his bucket of water, careful to be as silent as he possibly could, aimed, then splashed its contents over his brother's back. Scotland stiffened when the water soaked him head to toes, and for a moment he just stood like that. Then came a low growl, somehow not sounding angry at all, and he muttered, "That, Cearul, is the most childish reaction I've ever seen!"

Ireland was laughing too hard to even hear what his brother said, tears of laughter welling up in his eyes as he doubled over, hands on his knees to keep himself standing. So what if it was childish, it was funny to do! Suddenly he was tackled, and he fell to the floor with Scotland on top of him. The Scot's bucket was emptied on him, and then the younger one of the two joined in the laughter. Like that, they lay there on the floor for a few minutes, until Scotland choked out, "G-gods, Cearul! W-we are nearly two-thousand years old! We shouldn't be playin' 'round like this!" Ireland nodded, trying to stop laughing enough to reply. It took him a moment, but then he answered, "Two-thousand years old and still not even in our thirties! Al, we can fool around as much as we want!" He then pushed Scotland off and sat up, adding, "So long as we don't forget our duties, that is. And the duty at hand..." He sighed as he looked around: the room was definitely less dusty, but also way more messy. "...Has just become a little harder." Scotland shot up from where he lay on the ground as well, scanning the room in silence before turning to Ireland, stating matter-of-factly, "This is _your_ fault, Cearul."

"My fault?" the Irishman demanded, feigning anger. "_You _were the first to use water as a weapon between the two of us, just so ye know!" But Scotland got to his feet and shook his head. "An' _ye_ were the first t'use it _all_ in one attack. Yer fault. I was simply defendin' meself." He then sighed and turned his gaze to the floor, all the joy suddenly fading from his eyes. "It'd be nice if all wars went like this, hm? No massacres, just... silliness. And short. I mean, we thought we'd be done by the end o' '14, an' just look where we are now! January '17, an' still at war. 'Modern technology will get us through this with ease'... Modern technology my arse! It's only served to kill even more, even faster, even more brutal." He huffed and looked away, his shoulders tense, clearly angry over the situation. Ireland just stared at him for a moment, then got to his feet as well. "But surely it's nearly over?" he said softly, trying to sound reassuring but failing miserably. Instead, his voice was even softer than he'd intended, sounding very uncertain. "I mean, the way things are going, the battle will be won by someone sooner or later."

"Aye, an' by who? By 'em damn Germans, o'course!" Scotland hissed, clenching his hands into fists. "I refuse to become their colony, an' I most definitely refuse to die! At this point, Cearul, I _hope_ it will last for years yet. At least then we have the time to kick their asses -no, _rip their heads from their bloody shoulders with our bare hands_\- before it's too late for us." Ireland flinched at this, wondering where all that hatred suddenly came from. Had they not been choking with laughter only three minutes ago? He wanted to say something, but at the moment, he didn't even dare to as Scotland went on, "An' ye know what? For a moment back there, I was actually convinced Germany was quite a nice kid an' Prussia was a decent young lad. An' even despite everythin', _I still am._ That's the worst part! They're our enemies, they'll be the death of us all if this gets any more out o'hand, an' I still can't think o'them as bad people! 'Cause, y'know, from what I saw, Germany _still _posesses some o'that childlike innocence deep inside, despite the war-hardened exterior. An' Prussia... he raised that lad on his own an' did a damn good job on it. An' he's actually _such _a kind person..." He shook his head and relaxed his shoulders again, much calmer already after this rant. "An' yet, they're our enemies, an' one of us _will _destroy the other. It ain't supposed t'be like that, brother. It's just... _not._"

For a moment, Ireland could only stare, baffled. Really, they _had _just been having fun being the fools they were sometimes, right? Then where did this suddenly come from? But he shrugged it off when he saw his brother was back again, and forced on a smile for him. "I'm sure it'll be fine," he reassured him. "No one will die -no nation, at least." Scotland didn't respond for a moment, then nodded. "Right. So, Cearul... I'm _really _in the mood to fight something right now, so care to join me in this battle?" Ireland just raised an eyebrow at him, not understanding what he meant. Then the grin came back on Scotland's face, and as did the twinkle in his eyes as he said, "The epic battle against the three years' worth o'dust. I'll need an army for this one." Ireland just laughed and nodded, grabbing the empty buckets to refill them. And this time, there'd be no waterfights. This time they'd win the cleaning war.

Scotland was happy to be with his older brother now, doing this enormous task together. He truly _was_ happy. But the anger inside of him didn't fade. It hadn't faded one moment since he came back from the front seventeen months ago. July last year only made it worse. Everytime he heard news about the war, it got more and more intense. A burning hatred, not specifically towards Germany or Prussia, nor Austria-Hungary, or even their leaders. No, a hatred towards all of Europe for ever having let it get this far. Lives were being ruined daily, and he just couldn't stand that. And he knew for a fact that every soldier, whether they were British, French, German or Austrian or Russian, _loathed _everything they did on the battlefield. But it didn't stop. It just didn't stop.

* * *

Scotland lay on his back in his tent, staring at this cloth ceiling above him. It was dark outside now that dusk had finally set in. He heard the voices of his soldiers outside, their footsteps over the dry ground, but also crickets, as if those little bugs wanted to pretend everything was still normal. But it wasn't. The war had lasted a year now, save for a few days, and that was twice as long as he'd expected. Or rather, hoped. His people were dying around him, and he felt helpless because of it. How could he protect them from their fates? And how could he be their General, their nation, if he couldn't protect them?

And he couldn't. Especially not now that he'd been feeling quite ill for the past three days already. A wound on his left hip had gotten infected badly, and though it was beginning to heal, it still hurt like hell and had given him a fever. The previous day, he hadn't even been able to walk without stumbling every few steps, his leg practically killing him. He'd been ordered by the medics to take plenty of rest before going off on patrols again, and the wound was being disinfected daily. Sure, it was paying off, and it had been only a few days, but it also only served to make his sense of uselessness worse.

Suddenly his lungs began to sting, and with a huff he concluded that once again, there was a gas attack somewhere on his troops. Those particular mass-murder weapons were the worst in the entire world, brutally killing off dozens to hundreds of men with every attack. But this time around, the stinging grew worse with the second, and just as he began to question the cause, one of his men entered his tent, wide-eyed with fear and shock. "Sir!" he said quickly. "Sir, we're under attack! You have to get out of here!" Scotland immediately got to his feet, but his left leg gave way the moment he stood on it and he fell to the ground, pain shooting through his hip and leg as he pushed himself up again. Together with the soldier, he ran out of the tent and into their camp. Outside, the air was filled with a terrible sharp smell, and he began coughing the moment he inhaled it. He saw several of his soldiers already on the ground, spluttering pleas for help as blood made its way over their lips. Others were already dead. Horrified, the Scot looked to his side at the soldier who had alerted him, who was coughing up blood by now as well. At that moment, Scotland knew he had to get out of there. He didn't want to desert his platoon, but he knew with all his heart these humans were doomed. He had to go, go to another platoon, report this to them so they could brace themselves for another potential attack.

He sped off, paying his protesting leg no mind. He would probably be the only one of his platoon to survive this -given this hadn't been an attack by Germany himself, because then he'd be dead within minutes- and he _had _to warn others. But as his lungs seemed to be on fire with the gas that was filling them and his eyes began to water because of the stinging, his leg gave way again, and he crashed onto the ground. There, he lay for a moment, coughing harshly. After a moment he began to taste blood, and his mind only told him one thing at that point: _get out of here, get out of here __**fast**_. So he got to his feet once again and ran. His sight was blurry with the tears in them, and he tried to blink them away. They were useless now, they couldn't clean the gas out of his eyes no matter how hard they would try. But they kept coming back in greater numbers it seemed, because the world around him blurred more with the second, dark blotches appearing in his line of sight. He was now in a forest, he knew, and if he crossed it he would reach the nearest camp. But his leg burned and stabbed him, his lungs and throat and eyes were on fire, and he couldn't suppress the coughs anymore now. He felt the sticky liquid that came over his lips trickle down his chin, and all he could taste was his own blood. Eventually, he must've reached a particularly dark part of the forest, because by now, he didn't see anything anymore. And because of this, he didn't notice the barbed wire barrier just ahead of him, and he tripped over it, getting tangled up in it.

He let out a furious scream as he tried to pull his leg out of it, but the barbs were lodged into his skin and didn't seem willing to let go anytime soon. But he kept pulling, slowly crawling away from the barrier again as the wire cut into his skin all over his body. The moment he moved his head, he felt one of the barbs had dug deep into his right cheek, and was now slicing through his skin as though it were a piece of thin paper. He pulled it loose, letting out another scream, in pain this time, finally managing to crawl away from the barbed wire. He rolled onto his back, his lungs screaming for oxygen. But they were on fire, and he could only cough up blood now. As he lay gasping for the breath he couldn't get, he wondered if this was finally it. He wished for his brothers to be there with him, but at the same time thanked the heavens they were spared this agony. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't see, he couldn't even move anymore. He could only feel the pain, the way his lungs were flooding with blood at this point, and then he _knew_. He just knew he was dead, and somehow, he'd ended up in Hell.

It wasn't too long after that he heard footsteps, and two voices, distorted in a weird way. "_Schrecklich,_" one said_, _sounding horrified. "_Das war einfach schrecklich._" Then the second voice joined in, asking, "_Und der, ist er auch tot?"_ The footsteps came closer before the first voice spoke again. "_Nein, er lebt noch. Sollen wir ihn erlösen?"_ There was a soft murmur of agreement, and then Scotland heard one last, loud bang, and a bullet going through his chest. And then he just slipped away into nothingness...

* * *

**And that is what happened to Allistair back at the front... Really, if his hip hadn't been injured, he would've gotten much further and things probably wouldn't have turned out the way they did. But because he'd been shot a few days prior, he couldn't run as fast and as far as he would've been able to otherwise, which led to... this.**

**Also, the German (thanks to Crossfire for correcting my mistake)**

**"Schrecklich. Das war einfach schrecklich." - "Horrible. That was simply horrible."**

**"Und der, ist er auch tot?" - "And that one, is he also dead?"**

**"Nein, er lebt noch. Sollen wir ihn erlösen?" - "No, he's still alive. Shall we put him out of his misery?"**

**So I, eh... hope you liked this chapter! Thanks for reading, and please leave a review! They always make me happy~**


	28. Chapter 28

**Sorry this took so long, but this chapter required some research. And I still couldn't find everything I was looking for...**

**But I hope this chapter will still be okay.**

**And for once, I'm too lazy to look up all the usernames, sorry for that. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, followed and/or favourited this story!**

**I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

Two weeks after he and Ireland had gotten to Scotland's home, the Scot found himself wandering down the stairs in the middle of the night. Once again he had relived his last conscious day at the front, and once again, he'd woken up in cold sweat. It'd take him at least another hour before he would be able to fall asleep again, for sure. He was now just going to get himself some water, sit down for a moment and clear out his mind, and then he'd go back to bed. After all, there was a meeting in London in two days, and he and Ireland had to leave early this morning to get their in time for preparations.

As he was walking in the darkness, he almost felt as if he was blind again: it was dark, not even light from the stars outside making their way into his house, and as he didn't bother putting on those godforsaken glasses just to get some water, every little thing he could see was blurred almost beyond recognition. But with his experience, at least he had no trouble navigating in the darkness. But suddenly, he caught sight of light radiating from the kitchen, and silently he looked around the corner. He recognised that blur in a second, and squinting, he could make out his brother's ginger hair, messy as though he too had only just woken up. He had his back to Scotland, and in his hands, the Scot could just make out a silver blotch. He huffed and said, "Don't even think 'bout it."

There was a startled gasp, and the knife Ireland had been holding clattered to the ground, disturbing the perfect silence of the night. Ireland then sighed and let his shoulders hang before looking over them at his younger brother. "A-ah... hey, Al." With a disapproving glance at his brother, Scotland now entered the kitchen as well, bending forward to pick up the knife from the ground, only to find his fingertips brushing against nothing but the floor. He grunted in annoyance as Ireland picked it up for him and then handed it to Scotland, who put it in the drawer where it belonged. Ireland whispered softly, "I, ehm, haven't done anything yet, don't worry." Scotland just nodded and didn't look at Ireland as he sighed, "But ye thought 'bout doin' it again. An' after nearly three weeks, that would be such a shame." He closed his eyes for a moment then concluded, "Yer really gettin' there, Old Man. Dun'fall back in bad habits now." Ireland gave a quick nod, and Scotland thought he could see him smiling. "I won't, I promise. Since I told you guys 'bout this, I've cut only once. _One tiny cut_. I ain't planning to have a full relapse now, dun'worry." Then a short silence fell before the Irishman asked softly, "So... how come you're up?"

Scotland shook his head and sighed, opening the cupboard and grabbing a cup for himself, quickly asking if Ireland wanted some water too, who declined. "I've just been dreamin' again... the gas. Just give me an hour, an' I'll be sound asleep again," the younger of the nations explained, flatly as though it didn't even bother him. But Ireland didn't let it slide as easily, and he put his hand on his brother's shoulder. "That's been goin' on for twenty months now, Allistair," he said, clearly worried. "Ye should talk 'bout it. I dun'care if ye talk to me, to Dylan, to Artie or some random human! Just... talk." But Scotland shook his head as he protested, "Some things are to be talked about, Old Man, an' some things are best forgotten. This is somethin' I'm not goin' to recite, 'cause if I will, I'll never forget it. Those dreams aren't as frequent as they were, I dun'think 'bout it during most o'the day... Just allow me to forget it all, please." He took a sip of his water before looking at Ireland again, who was staring at him with a gaze that clearly said he didn't know what to do for a moment. "Just go to sleep again, Cearul," Scotland told him softly. "We have to get up early. Get some rest again. I will, too."

* * *

The meeting a few days after that was one just like they had been the past years: war, war, war. The four brothers were beginning to lose hope by now. Sure, they were winning a few battles, but they couldn't keep this up much longer. The economy was ruined, and not even the funds from America could help England anymore now. He'd fallen back into the same illness he'd had in 1915, and once again, he was with Wales because of it. They were now at the older nation's place instead of London, as things were calmer there, and Wales figured that would be better for his little brother.

On a brighter note, things with Ireland were going rather well. He wasn't completely himself yet, but he was truly getting there. He didn't drink as much anymore -no more than what he used to before his depression, at least- and knives were never picked up to cut himself with anymore either. He was still a bit thin, but that was partially because of the terrible economy -none of them healed as fast as they should because of it, a simple scrape could stay for days, a bruise wouldn't heal in less than a week at least. It was almost human, this. Their bodies were occupied with other things, so everything that wouldn't kill them had no priority. And for Ireland, it meant he couldn't gain the weight he needed as quick as he hoped. But it was no problem. It had never been so bad that it became hazardous to his health, anyway.

At one point, when Scotland and Ireland had been going for a walk through the city and a car had passed them, the Scot got into a full-blown coughing fit as he inhaled the exhaust gas, and Ireland then sent him to see a doctor about it. Reluctantly, Scotland agreed after his older brother had been 'nagging' him about it for nearly a week. After a few examinations, it turned out his lungs were indeed still damaged. But it was nothing that wouldn't heal over time. Most likely, the moment this war was over, he would recover completely. It wasn't uncommon for certain wounds obtained in a war to remain until the battle was over, and this would be one of them. At least now they knew it was physical, Ireland decided, and he didn't have to worry about how to get his stubborn little brother to see a psychriatic for his trauma. That, too, would heal, and it wasn't affecting him physically, so everything was fine.

The biggest surprise concerning the war came in April. "He's trying to get Mexico on his side!" America had yelled through the phone a little earlier that year. "Can you believe it? The bastard! He says he's going to pay for Mexico's war against me, and will help him 'regain' Texas, New Mexico and Arizona! Germany's asking for trouble, I'm telling ya!" And then later, when German submarines sunk seven merchant ships, America and his boss finally agreed that it was time. On April 6 that year, the United States of America declared war on the German Empire, and his participation in the war would prove to be the turning point for the Allied Forces. From that day forth, the war was going well for them, and the Germans were losing more frequently.

When the next year came, Germany and Prussia came with one last attempt to regain their succes on the battlefield and win the war, the Spring Offensive. At first it seemed to go according to plan. But it wasn't long before they lost again and again, and they had no choice anymore. They signed an armistice with the Allied forces on 11 November 1918, which meant that from that moment on, the battle was over. The war was nearly done. It would take until summer next year to sign the official Peace Treaty, but that wasn't the main concern of the United Kingdom anymore.

In Ireland around the same time, the political party Sinn Féin had risen to power. They had gained popularity after the Easter Rising, and as of 14 December 1918, they were the largest political party in Ireland. On 21 January 1919, they declared Ireland independent. Ireland swore he had nothing to do with this, though he also stated he would do nothing to stop his people, if this is what they wanted. After all, it was also what he wanted, what he needed to survive for more than a few decades from now. He tried to reassure his brothers that he would avoid any battle if he could, but those words seemed meaningless when, that same day, two Royal Irish Constabulars were killed in an ambush by the IRA. From that day on, the conflict between the two nations began all over again. IRA members and British soldiers and policemen fought frequently, and it didn't take too long before the Dáil Éireann, the new Irish government, declared they were at war with England. Neither England or Ireland participated in any battle themselves, not yet. First, the Great War had to be over, then they could consider putting an end to this war as well.

And on 28 June, 1919, the Central Powers and Allied Forces gathered to sign the finally finished Peace Treaty, the Treaty of Versailles. Ireland, despite everything Irish soldiers had done in the war, wasn't allowed to come along with the rest of the United Kingdom: if he refused to be part of them anymore, he couldn't expect to be there for official United Kingdom business, after all.

* * *

"Gods," Scotland mumbled when he and his two little brothers entered the conference room and spotted the German brothers sitting there with their leader and representatives already. "They look like shit... An' I thought Prussia, being an albino, couldn't get any paler than he already was..." He sighed then, giving his former enemies a look of pity before sitting down. England and Wales just stared at eachother for a moment, wondering why Scotland suddenly sounded worried about their enemies. But they shrugged it off and took their seats as well, next to their own leaders. France was there already as well, together with his president. America soon followed, and even Russia, though he'd betrayed the Allies by signing the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk with Germany ealier in 1918 because of two revolutions in 1917. But since some of the points of the Treaty affected him as well, he was there. Last to enter the room were Austria and Hungary, grim-faced, knowing very well what would come.

France refused to look Germany in the eye, and the young nation shrunk back into his chair, averting his gaze, clearly ashamed. Prussia sat with a straight back and his chin held high, not cocky, but confident. He'd gone through these things often enough, and he wasn't afraid of anything or anyone. He'd always remain the proud Prussian he was, even if he'd just suffered a crushing defeat. Every now and then, he'd give his little brother a pat on the shoulder and a reassuring smile, trying his best to cheer Germany up, who was now experiencing his first Peace Treaty, and one definitely not in his favour. Russia seemed particularly hostile towards the Prussian albino, giving him a glare that seemed to burn right through him. It was no surprise, since he'd suffered great losses against the German state, not only in this war, but in many others before this as well. They'd had a lifelong rivalry, and they hated eachother with all their hearts.

"First of all," America began when everyone was assembled, handing everyone papers. "These are the points we have previously discussed and agreed on. Feel free to look through them before we discuss the issue any further." England growled under his breath and gritted his teeth, muttering, "Hold on a moment, why is _he_ taking the lead?" He was hushed by the King, who merely gave his nation an angry glance. America sighed as he sat back down, stating, "I'm not taking the lead, British dude, I'm only handing everyone papers. Francy-pants will take it from here." The American received a glare from France for this nickname, and the older nation hissed a short "_Tais-toi, Amerique!_" under his breath. He then inhaled slowly to calm himself, and said to everyone present, "If you look at zhe last page, zhere are personal points for every nation as well which we 'ave not yet discussed. Zhey are completely out of zhe nation's own initiatives."

Curious, England and his brothers looked at these specific pages. England's eyes widened as he read one of the things written there. "I... thank you, France." France only nodded: he'd stated he would financially help England -on a personal level- during his conflict with his brother. Both their economies were in ruins, but England was the one who was immediately thrown into another war. Should he, for any reason, lack the money to take care of himself and his two brothers, France would be there to help. The same thing was there for Wales and Scotland. On the Scot's paper, however, was even more than that, and he narrowed his eyes to try and read it. The letters were black blurs on the sheet of white, and with a sigh, he took his glasses from his chest pocket. He'd really hoped he wouldn't have to wear them today, but he couldn't read so much as a single word without them. And even with them on, he found, some things were too blurred for him to read. He softly cursed under his breath, and he put the paper down on the desk with an annoyed sigh. Prussia looked up at this, and said, "_S-Schottland, ich..._ I can tell you vhat's on there, if you need me to." When there came no answer except for surprised stares from every nation and human present, the albino told the older nation, "Should you need any further medical treatment as a result of the gas incident, if ever your eyes can be restored to vhat they used to be before all this medically... I vill pay every bit of it. Consider it a compensation for everything ve did to you."

Scotland was speechless for a moment, his eyes wide as he stared at the albino sitting acorss the table. It took him a little while before he could avert his gaze, and he said quietly, "Thank you, Prussia. That's... thank you." Prussia shook his head. "It's the least ve can do after all the trouble ve caused you. Being blind for a year... I'm so sorry." Then Germany shifted in his chair and, without looking at the Scot, added, "You could've been killed... I vas there, planting the shells for the attack. That is probably the reason some of the damage lingered after all this time... I'm so sorry, I had no idea you vere there. It vas never my intention to hurt another nation like this." Scotland shook his head and said it was alright. A mistake was easily made, and they had only done what their leaders had told them to.

Shortly after that, they went over to the subject of debts having to be paid off. "You damaged me badly," France muttered to the German brothers, glaring at them. "_Et_ I expect you to pay for zhe damage you've done. Trust me, zhis is a debt you will 'ave trouble with paying off, but _you will pay me. _It's zhe least you can do after everything you've done." Prussia scowled, glaring back at his former friend. Prussia, France and Spain. They were a trio of the best friends Europe had ever seen, but they also couldn't stand eachother. It had always been a matter of 'can't live with them, can't live without them'. That was probably over for good this time. "How much do you want, _arschloch?_"

"132 billion gold marks." A heavy silence fell in the room after that, and Germany and Prussia gave eachother a silent, shocked stare. 132 billion? How could they ever pay that much? France only stared at them with a cold gaze. He needed that money, he really did. His country had been devastated by the years of battle, his economy was destroyed. The only reason he could sit here now was because he was stubborn enough to fight the terrible illness that was torturing him now. Honestly, it wouldn't surprise any of the nations if he just collapsed halfway through the meeting. Most likely, the humans here would be more surprised. Eventually, it was England who spoke up, "France, don't you think that's a bit too much? I understand you need money for reparations, but please consider their health as well: everyone here is in a bad condition, and they are no better off than you at the moment." When there came no answer except from an angry huff from the Frenchman, England continued, now with a nasty edge to his voice, "Don't be greedy: lower the debt, even if just a little." America then cleared his throat and said, "Right, on the matter of debts, England. You and your brothers have something to pay me back, too." He shoved a note over to his former guardian, who read it with furrowed brows. He was clearly not happy, and his mood darkened even more when he read the amount of money he had to pay the US. "What?!" His eyes wide, he jumped up from his chair and slammed his hands on the table, his chair clattering on the ground behind him. "Alfred, this is... This is ridiculous!" The King grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him back, giving him another harsh stare before hissing something to him under his breath. Whatever it was, it was _bad_. Bad enough to tint England's cheeks pink in shame. "My apologies, Your Majesty." He then cleared his throat, and said more calmly, "America, I'm begging you, have some consideration. We could never pay all this."

"You have all the time in the world," America replied, straightening his glasses for a moment. "Look, United Kingdom, I don't care if you have to be paying off this debt into the new century. Take your time, but you will pay it all." England sighed and sat down again. When he sat, Wales placed his hand over that of his little brother, and said softly, "It'll be fine, Arthur. He said we have all the time, right? It will be okay." Scotland gave a small nod and added in a whisper, "For this once, don't be stubborn an' give us some o'the damage, too. We can each take a third, like _every _Empire does. Then it'll be just fine." England nodded, agreeing. This time he just couldn't be the gentleman and take eighty percent of it all. That would kill him, especially with what was going on in Ireland now.

The other points they discussed were the changes in territory. France would reclaim some territory previously lost in a war against Prussia in 1870, and Prussia would lose a lot of territory to Poland and Russia. The Austria-Hungarian Empire would cease to exist, meaning, the two nations would be divorced and would return to being just Hungary and just Austria. Their marriage was over for good now.

And as was the Great War.

* * *

**Well, this concludes WW1 in this fic, and now we're also at the point of the Irish War for Independence. In fact, we're nearing the end of Rising, and then there'll be Trouble. And to be honest, I enjoy writing and researching all this so much, I might just make an entire 'Historical Hetalia' series. Also with Germany and Prussia, the Italians, perhaps the Nordics... you name it. (Strange enough, I don't feel like writing down the Dutch history at all, which is my own... It's just so boring! (to me, at least))**

**I hope the things I wrote down were somewhat correct XD there's just _so much _on this subject. But for some reason, I couldn't even find how big the debt of the UK actually was. And that's... strange.**

**Anyway, thanks a lot for reading. I'll try to get the next chapter up more quickly. I hope you liked it, and please leave a review!**


	29. Chapter 29

**This took longer than usual, didn't it? Sorry for that. At least it's also longer than the last few chapters have been.**

**Thanks to Crossfire and Gondorcalling dor the reviews and follow!**

**Anyway, here's the new chapter!**

**I do not own Hetalia**

* * *

Wales sat with England in his backyard, both holding a steaming cup of tea while trying to hold a normal conversation. But they were both tense, what with recent happenings. Eventually, after he noticed his younger brother hadn't taken as much as a sip of his tea yet, Wales sighed. "Arthur, it'll be all right, I swear." England only huffed, not convinced yet, and put his tea aside with a soft "I wasn't really in the mood for it, anyway," before averting his gaze, staring at the stables close by. What he had said during the Easter Rising, that Wales knew how to ride a horse better than he knew how to drive a car, was true. In fact, he had two of them, an older mare and her seven-year-old son. If Wales was away for a longer period of time, a friend of him would look after the both of them. Horseriding was one of his favourite hobbies, and had been since medieval times. But while England ofcourse knew how to ride them properly, he'd never really seen the appeal. It's not that he disliked animals (though the younger horse Wales had here was a devil whichever way he looked at it) but he certainly didn't like spending the entire day with them. Wales did.

The Welshman sighed, wondering what to do with his brother now that he was in such a stubborn state. Then he got up and walked away, pulling England along with him by the arm. "Wha-? Dylan!" the Englishman protested, trying to dislodge his brother's hand from his wrist and pull himself free. But Wales only smirked at him, saying, "Y'know what, Artie? I don't care wether you like it or not, you should've stared at something else. Because now, I've decided to go horseriding, and you're coming with me." England glared at him with all the hatred he could gather, which, frankly, wasn't much. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said, sounding rather agitated. "Why do I have to come with you? You know I can't stand that little-!"

"Because they _both _need their excercise," Wales stated flatly, though the smirk was still on his face. He loved to tease England like this. "And just so you know, Cythraul is the sweetest thing ever." England, who heard the black devil's name for the first time now, just stared at him with a gaze that clearly asked '_you're kidding, right_?'. With a huff, he protested, "Even you call him _Demon!_ Look, I may not be an expert yet, but I know enough Welsh to know what that name means, idiot. That animal is the devil and you know it." Wales just shook his head, amused.

The moment they reached the stables, both horses got excited at seeing their owner again. The first one he walked over to was Cythraul, giving the animal a firm pat on the neck. "See, Arthur?" Wales said with a glance at his brother. "He's sweet." But the moment the horse spotted England, he folded his ears flat against his neck, and Wales' eyes widened in surprise at this sign of hostility. "Though the feeling of hatred seems to be mutual, I'll give you that. Y'know what, you take Rosie, I'll take the little devil." He got Cythraul out of the stable and, in a swift movement, got onto his back, which left England to stare at him as though he was crazy. "What, no saddle?" Wales smirked again and looked down at his younger brother, thoroughly enjoying that look on his face as he said, "Who needs a saddle? This is much more comfortable, in my opinion." With that, he sped off, leaving England to stare after him for a moment before, after a little while, following his brother. _With_ saddle.

"I hope Allistair can get Cearul to talk," England mused after an hour, his gaze turned to the coulds above them. Wales nodded and gave his brother a reassuring smile. "Ofcourse he can! It's Allistair we're talking about, he can get anyone to talk. And he knows very well that, as a last resort, he can always just go and get him drunk. You know Cearul always runs his mouth when he's been drinking." England was lost in thought for a moment before giving a short nod. A silence fell again after that, which was broken when England asked, "What is it between Al and Cearul? Or you and Allistair, for that matter. You've always been so... close. I never understood why Allistair was more close to both you and Cearul than any of us are in general."

"That's because you never asked," Wales answered, laughing. His laughter soon faded however, and he sighed, explaining, "Well, Cearul and Allistair have been eachother's only brothers for two centuries, after all. It's really no wonder they built up a close bond during that time. And twohundred years after Allistair, I was born. I suppose Al was just happy to be the older brother for once, 'cause I remember him spending a lot of time just telling me stories of how he and Cearul went hunting and went off on 'adventures' and all that. I guess he wasn't much older than six or seven back then, both physically and mentally. Or, mentally he might have been ten or eleven, but you know there's not such a big difference between physical and mental age until we're a few centuries old. Anyway, a year after I was born, you came around as well. Mum died, we left... I'm still sorry for that, by the way... But, you know, not too long after that, Cearul just disappeared." England's eyes widened at that. Why had no one ever told him that? Wales just went on, "Allistair and I found out five years later that he'd gone off to his island. It took us a few weeks to understand that that was where he belonged, so we've had a good fight with him for abandoning us during those weeks. The whole concept of being a nation was new even to us at that time, I'm sure you remember. But with mum gone and Cearul in Ireland-to-be, Allistair was left to raise me, and he did. And if I hadn't known any better, I would've thought he was my father instead of my brother." With a warm smile, the Welsh nation concluded, "And sometimes I still nearly do."

England nodded, understanding now. Scotland had always been the one connecting the family after Brittania's death. His reasoning always worked better on Ireland than England's or Wales' did, he could comfort Wales better than Ireland or England could ever hope to do when the Welshman was upset about anything... all for this reason. Knowing this, England smiled, feeling more reassured that Scotland could convince Ireland to tell him what was going on and why. Except that the Irish wanted independence, they didn't quite know what the motives of the IRA were, or the nation's own for that matter. But most of all they were worried as, once again, Ireland had been secluding himself from his brothers like he had two years prior. They just wanted to make sure he hadn't gone back to cutting or anything like it. After all, he had reason enough to feel guilty about things now. Surely Scotland would be able to get him to talk...

* * *

Ireland wasn't feeling too well at the moment, if he had to be honest. With his land in turmoil and the economical effects of the Great War and the debt also still affecting him, he'd become quite ill. He figured that, on top of all that, he must've caught something else, like a cold or the flu, because it was a bit worse than he thought it should have been. He felt sick enough to have decided to spend this day in bed, only leaving for food, water or a toilet every now and then. The things bothering him most were the skull-splitting headache -which was an effect of the war, perhaps strengthened by a human illness- nausea and lightheadedness. The occasional cough or shiver couldn't even be classified as a nuisance.

He winced as a loud sound suddenly filled his house, holding his eyes shut tight and pulling the sheets over his face. Gods, why? He'd just about managed to have the house completely silent, what was this sudden sound and where did it come from? When it came the second time, he recognised it as a voice. That of Scotland, to be precise. "Old Man, ye in here? I've already been t'Dublin an' ye weren't there, so I thought, Ballinhassig it must be. C'mon, Cearul, if yer here just _answer._ I've been driving for hours an' I'm tired of it by now!" Feeling a little bad for his brother, Ireland just called to him that he was in his bedroom. His voice came out more as a grunt than anything else, though. It was only a few seconds afterwards that Scotland came in, suddenly a bit more quiet when he laid eyes on his brother. "Cearul? Y'all right, brother?" he asked softly, to which Ireland only curled up further under his sheets. Every sound was too loud right now. "Not really..." he muttered, keeping his eyes closed. He heard Scotland's footsteps come a little closer, and a cold hand against his face before the Scot spoke again, hushed now as he realised what a headache his older brother had, "No wonder. Yer burnin' up. Is this 'cause o'the war, ye think?" Ireland nodded slowly, pulling back from the Scot's cold palm.

Scotland sighed, sitting down on the side of the bed and placing his hand on Ireland's shoulder. Well, he wasn't going to interrogate him _now_, that was for sure. That would simply be cruel. "I was goin' t'ask ye a few things," he explained in a whisper. "But that can wait. I'll go get ye some'in to cool ye down, all right? This temperature is too high." Ireland nodded again, rasping a barely audible "okay" before drifting off, half-asleep.

Scotland looked at him a moment longer and sighed. Now how had Ireland gotten himself so sick so sudden? No one in the family was a hundred percent right now, but Ireland seemed to be not even thirty percent. Whatever it was, Scotland would take care of him for the time being. It was, after al, the least he could do, knowing his brother would do the same for him. This was probably just an effect from the war, so there wasn't much he could do, but he would do his best to help and that was enough. And even if he was at war with him, he loved his older brother dearly and simply couldn't watch him suffer. He'd never been able to watch him suffer in any way, and would never be. And the same went for the Irishman himself: he couldn't stand it if his brothers were in pain. Though they couldn't always help eachother as much as they wanted to...

* * *

"M-mom?" Ireland asked tentatively as he watched his mother writhing in pain on the grass. He'd seen this twice before, but never had she been this pale when giving birth, and that was the moment he was again reminded that she wouldn't survive this time. "I-it's okay, sweetie," she tried to reassure him, her voice hoarse with pain and her words interrupted by frantic panting. Ireland could only imagine how much it hurt, and it made his skin crawl just thinking about it. "Just fetch some water, I'll be fine even if you leave for a few minutes. You know how this works, sweetheart." Yes, he did. But that didn't lessen his fear this time. He ran off to do as she asked, passing Scotland on the way, who was holding Wales. The baby had only just woken up, apparently, and was staring at his older brothers with sleepy green eyes. "Is the baby there yet?" Scotland asked, his blue eyes wide and twinkling with excitement. Wales gave a high-pitched grunt of protest against his loud voice, and the child immediately lowered it. "Can I go and see?" But Ireland shook his head. "No, it's still not here yet. And _no_, Alba, you can't go! Mom told you to look after Cymru, and he's too young to witness this. He wouldn't understand why she's in pain and panic and make the situation even worse. She really can't have a crying baby around now, so please, just be patient. I'll call you as soon as it's over, all right?" Scotland pouted before nodding. He understood, ofcourse, but understanding didn't mean he was pleased with it. He'd been there when Wales was born, after all, and he wanted to see his new sibling as soon as it was born as well. He hoped it would be a little sister, actually, just to have something else than brothers around, but he was okay with anything. He'd tell them stories and play with them just as he did with Wales. And at least, if it _was_ a boy, the games could be a little more rough once he was old enough, and he liked that. His mom went hunting as well, ofcourse, and she was even swifter than her sons, but she was a woman. A woman wasn't the same as a girl, and girls just weren't as tough for all he'd ever seen with humans. But still, a sister would be nice.

As he watched Ireland walk away, he turned to Wales, who was staring at him with wide, mossy green eyes. "Just let him talk," he said to his baby brother. "But we both know better, right? You know veeeerrry well what's going on." With a smile he added, "You're going to be a big brother now, after all!" At this, Wales smiled as well, his eyes twinkling with joy. With his tiny hands, he reached for his brother's firey red hair and grabbed a handful of it, pulling on it with squeaks of joy and laughter. "Ow-ow-ow! C-Cymru, _please_, let go-! Ow!" Laughing, Scotland managed to dislodge his little brother's hand from his hair and then gave him a soft pat on the head. "Just be patient, lad. You'll be a big brother before you know it!" Wales gave a high squeal that sounded like laughter, followed by a "Udah!" which Scotland had figured out to be his attempts at saying 'brother'.

It was nearly sunset when the newest brother of the family was born. Ireland held his tiny body, still covered in blood and grime, in his arms carefully as he sat beside his mother, who was now on the brink of death. "Albion," she wheezed, looking at her newborn son with glassy eyes. "That's... his name... Albion..." Ireland looked down at her, surpressing the sobs that were trying to escape his lips. Then, slowly, he held out the boy -Albion- to her, and weakly, she held him in his arms. Her eyes showed nothing but warmth as she looked at him. The pain, the fear, the sadness... it was all gone that moment. "My precious little one..." she whispered, giving him a soft kiss on his head. She then turned to Ireland, who was on the verge of tears now. "Eire... I love you, sweetheart. C-come..." He leaned in closer obediently, also receiving a final kiss goodbye from his beloved mother. "You're so strong," she told him, smiling. "I have faith in you, my son. You can get through this, together with your little brothers..." A few seconds later, she died, before he could even answer. Before he could even tell her how much he loved her, promise her that he would do his best, thank her for all those centuries they'd spent together. She was gone before he could utter a single sound.

Sniffling, he picked up Albion from her still body, wiping the grime from his face. How could something so small, so innocent, be the cause of all this? When, at one point, the newborn opened his eyes, Ireland nearly dropped him in shock. Suddenly, he wasn't looking at his newest brother. He was looking at the mother he'd lost only minutes ago. His eyes were a bright emerald, just like her's, and the look in them was exactly how she would look sometimes. When Ireland began to sniffle again, tears rolling down his face in great numbers, the child stared at him as if to ask 'what's wrong? Why're you crying, brother?' That was the moment Ireland placed the child on the grass, ripping a piece of cloth from the bottom of his mother's long dress and wrapping his little brother in it. He then stared at him for a moment longer, spun around and ran away. He just couldn't look at that child now. He resembled his mother too much, and it _hurt._ It tore at his heart to see her now that she was gone, and looking at her newest son was practically the same as looking at her. And he... he couldn't.

When he reached Scotland and Wales, the older child looked up with shining blue eyes. "Well? Can I come now?" Ireland didn't answer. Instead, he crashed down onto his knees in front of him and started crying. Startled, Scotland inched closer tentatively. "Eire? Eire, what's... what's wrong?" The young Ireland grabbed his younger brother's shirt, gripping it between his fingers as he tried to control his breathing. Eventually he managed to choke out, "M-mum is d-d-dead...!" Scotland flinched, staring at him wide-eyed, a horrified expression on his face. Slowly shaking his head, he whispered, "No... no, she's not. She's not. W-we're not like them, we don't die like they do..." With 'them', obviously, he meant humans, Ireland figured. And for a long time, he'd believed the same thing, but now he knew it wasn't true. They were definitely more than human, but whatever they were, they weren't immortal. He watched, sobbing, as Scotland kept on protesting softly, growing more tense with the second. Eventually, he, too, collapsed onto the grass, letting out an agonised wail and crying more than he ever had in his entire life. In his left hand, he still held on to Wales' tiny hand, gently as to not hurt him despite the sobs wrecking his small body. Tiny Wales could only watch, not comprehending at all what was going on, only that something terrible had happened and both his big brother's were very, very sad. Oh, how he wished he could talk right now, that was obvious from the frustrated look he shot his brothers. Then he could've comforted them. Now he could only sniffle quietly as tears welled up, tears of frustration rather than pain.

* * *

"Old Man, c'mon, wake up," came Scotland's deep voice, and Ireland obeyed. Blinking open his eyes, he felt a familiar sticky wet feeling under his eyes. Damn, he'd been crying in his sleep. He turned his gaze, still unfocused, towards his brother, who was looking at him with a hint of worry in his eyes. It was no longer a child's face he was looking at, but the familiar, twenty-six-year-old's face he'd known for the past eight centuries. "Y'all right?" Scotland questioned, tilting his head to one side. "I thought it might be best t'wake ye, what with ye cryin' like that. What'd ye dream 'bout? Ye dun'usually get so... emotional." Ireland nodded slowly, shivering with cold even though he was still curled up under thick sheets. "When mum died..." he rasped. His voice was completely gone, barely audible, and he coughed after speaking. Damn the flu...

Scotland narrowed his eyes as he recalled that day. It had, without a doubt, been one of the hardest things he'd ever gone through. Not only because he'd lost his mother, but also because, back then, he'd believed he'd also lost his youngest brother. Ireland had only ever told them Brittania had died, and hadn't allowed even Scotland near her body as he buried her. Whenever Scotland asked about the child, his brother would fall silent, a look of horror in his eyes and fresh tears welling up, so the young Scot never pressed the matter, assuming England had been dead as well. Only years later, when the Romans invaded, did he find out his little brother had survived.

He shook his head and discarded those thoughts, placing his hand on Ireland's clammy skin again. It was hot as though a fire raged beneath it, and at this point, he didn't believe it could only be the war and economy. Most likely, he'd caught the flu or something as well. It wasn't often a nation caught a human illness, but it wasn't impossible. Usually it passed almost as quickly as a wound did, but considering the terrible state Ireland was in right now economy-wise, that probably wouldn't be the case. He placed his hand behind Ireland's shoulders now, helping him sit up. The Irishman's entire body was trembling, which was another sign that he was definitely not all right. Picking up the thermometer he'd placed on the nightstand, Scotland told his brother he'd take his temperature in a hushed voice. Ireland nodded drowsily, frowning a bit as the could glass was placed between his lips. No, he did not like cold right now. Everything was cold right now.

Scotland cursed under his breath as he looked at the thermometer, at first because he had trouble reading it, then because it read Ireland's temperature was over fourty degrees. Bad news. But he'd come prepared, and so he grabbed the wet cloth he'd brought with him and, paying his brother's protests no mind, placed it against Ireland's burning forehead. "Be still now, brother," he told him gently. "Ye have t'cool down, after all. Ye won't die, but it's ne'er healthy to have a fever this high." Ireland only rasped something in response, and Scotland hummed, pretending to have understood what he'd tried to say. The Irishman knew better, though, and tried again. "How's Artie doin'...? A-an' ye an' Dyl'n...?" Scotland smiled at him, reassuring him, "Artie's doin' just fine, considering. No real fever, just a bit unbalanced sometimes and a bit spaced-out every now an' then. Same fer me an' Dylan. We're all right, Old Man, dun'ya worry now. Just focus on gettin' better yerself." Ireland nodded, lying back down and curling up again, almost instantly back asleep. Scotland smiled, adjusting the sheets for his brother and walking away silently. He'd give his younger brothers a call now, explain to them that they would definitely get their information.

But for now, they had to be patient.

* * *

**Y'know, I imaging Scotland to have been the cutest kid ever! Exactly like many other children are: always enjoying going on 'adventures', proud about small and simple 'achievements'... But also very caring towards Wales. Oh, and he probably also enjoyed climbing trees, being able to do it so fast he was like a little monkey. Seriously, in my mind, whenever I write this, there's nothing cuter than young Scotland! XD**

**Ireland was a cutie as well, but he'd gotten responsibility a bit too fast here. Never really played anymore at this time... which is a bit sad, actually, but on the other hand, he was nearly four centuries old already (though nations are never much older -or younger- mentally than they are physically). And as for Wales, well... he was only a year old. All one-year-olds are cute.**

**And now I'm brabbling too much... ^.^'**

**Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please leave a review~!**


	30. Chapter 30

**First, as usual, thanks for the reviews, Crossfire, Karano and SomethingSimsy!**

**I hope you'll like this chapter a bit... I'm in the mood for flashbacks now, and as they do fit in with the current storyline, here you'll have another one!**

**And _finally _I managed to update at my regular pace again...!_  
_**

**I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

Scotland flopped down onto the couch in Ireland's livingroom, exhausted. He'd left his home at five in the morning to go to Dublin at the request of England and Wales, only to find Ireland wasn't there. He then figured he was in Ballinhassig, as his only other place was in Belfast and he probably didn't want to be up north right now. The Ulster Unionists didn't quite agree with the idea of independence. Then he'd spent a few hours looking after Ireland, who slipped in and out of sleep with his fever, and had only left to make dinner when he'd been able to lower that fever by nearly a degree. He'd just made some soup so Ireland could eat, too, but he hadn't taken much of it at all. But, Scotland figured, at least he'd eaten something, and considering just how sick he was, that was more than enough.

But now the Scot was exhausted, eyes closing the moment he sat down. But he couldn't sleep, not yet, not after having been reminded of the day Brittania had died. Damnit, really, why did Ireland dream about that now, and why tell his brother about it? Well, the answer to the second question was simple, as Scotland had asked about it himself. But it didn't really help the Scot now, as 'peace of mind' was nonexistent at the moment. The thing that bothered him most when he thought about that day, was knowing what came after it. He hadn't even known England was still alive, and after a rather short period of time, his older brother, the one he could lean on in difficult times, vanished, leaving him to look after his two-year-old brother. He'd never showed Wales how difficult it was for him, thinking for all that time that they were the only ones left alive in the entire family. Yes, he had seriously believed Ireland to be dead as well at some point, and that it was only a matter of time before he and Wales followed. He had always enjoyed taking care of his little brother, but it had been hard, and he'd overworked himself more than once. One time, a year before he first met England and eighteen months before he saw Ireland again, he'd overworked himself to the same point where Ireland now was: high fever, headache, constantly shivering and slipping in and out of consciousness. He'd been so ashamed, because then his little brother, only a toddler, had to take care of him instead of the other way around. But Wales, intelligent, compassionate little Wales had understood completely and worked to help his brother as hard as he could. Sweet little thing. He, too, had grown up way too fast, though Scotland had tried his best to get him to play as much as any other child his age, so he could enjoy his early childhood. But what the Welshman enjoyed most was cuddling up to his brother at night, ear against his chest to fall asleep to the rythmic sound of a beating heart. And Scotland would sing him soft lullabies in Gaelic until he slept. He himself, no matter how exhausted, could never sleep until Wales did and he could hear him breathing deep and rythmically. He'd enjoyed that time as much as he loathed it.

But ofcourse, even the peace ended, when he and Wales got seperated for a short period of time by the Romans. But even the invasion had some advantages, because then he first met his youngest brother.

* * *

Scotland kicked furiously, trying to pull himself free from the grasp of the Roman soldiers that held him down. "Let me go!" he screamed, hoping to intimidate them and show them that, despite his small size, he had quite some fire and quite some strength in him. But they wouldn't let go, their grip on him didn't even slacken. Eventually they reached a tent, and he was thrown at the feet of a man he'd seen before: the Roman Empire. There was another boy in the tent, a few years younger than Scotland himself. But the Scot paid him no mind, and instead glared up at the old empire in front of him. Rome, who had the appearance of a man in his early thirties, grinned as he looked down at the young nation, then said something to his soldiers, to which the men nodded before leaving.

"Caledonia," Rome said soflty, menacing. "Good to see you again, boy." Scotland scrambled away from him, baring his teeth at him much like he'd seen predators in the woods do. "My name is Alba!" he hissed furiously, getting ready for a fight as he was pretty sure there would be one. Rome only laughed and nodded. "Ofcourse, ofcourse. The name your mother gave to you, hm? Where is she, anyway? Dead, I hear?" Scotland only growled in response, but Rome got the message. Yes, she was. But even if she had been his partner for some time, he didn't seem to care at all. Rome then turned to the other child, a mere todler, with a smirk. "You hear that, Britannius? Searching for her is useless, she's not here anymore." This made Scotland turn to look at the child as well, and his breath caught in his throat as he saw him. Golden blonde hair, emerald eyes and delicate features... he was an exact copy of Brittania. The boy only stared at Rome, confused, then looked at Scotland and back again. "Indeed, he's your big brother, son," Rome said, before adding in a mocking voice, "Though no child of mine, ofcourse. But you shared the same mother at least."

Damnit. Damnit, damnit, damnit. This kid was his brother? The one he thought had died at birth? The boy, whose name was Albion if he remembered short mentions of him from Ireland correctly, didn't seem to believe it either. But then, suddenly, he ran towards Scotland on his short legs and swung his arms around his waist. He barely reached the Scot's midriff, who was maybe nine at this point in time. "Are you really _fratri mihi_?" he asked, speaking part Latin, which made Scotland's skin crawl. Had the kid spent so much time with Rome, he had begun to speak his language? But still, the older boy nodded, slowly and hesitantly. Suddenly, Rome barked a command at him in Latin, sounding furious, and Albion let go of his older brother immediately, looking terrified. Scotland hadn't understood what Rome had said, but rage welled up as he watched this boy, who he refused to accept as his brother yet, cower in fear of the man. "How dare you terrorise that kid?" he yelled at him, and Albion flinched, fearing for his newfound brother. But the boy just went on, enraged. "You're his father, aren't you? How can you stand watching your own child fearing you? You're a terrible parent, Rome, and a terrible person!" Rome only grinned and knelt down in front of him, still towering over him in that position. "And how would you know, Caledonia?" He smashed the boy onto the ground, keeping his hand around his neck, though not yet choking him. Scotland tried frantically to get away, kicked him against the shoulder, scratched his arm and bit his hand. Rome only looked at him in disgust. "You've spend too much time in the woods, kid," he said. "You're acting like a feral beast."

"At least I know for a fact that I would be a much better parent than you are to Albion!" the boy hissed in response. "Beast or not. I'm already raising Cymru, after all!" He gave another scratch, drawing blood with his sharp nails. "Now _let me go_!" Rome only tightened his grip, pressing shut the child's throat. Suddenly, Albion began yelling at Rome in Latin, something Scotland could not understand, though he did know he was telling him to stop, basically. Rome let go of Scotland instantly, though not because he wanted to do as his son asked. No, he grabbed his sword and smashed it against the toddler's head with the flat side, knocking him unconscious, blood dripping down the side of his head. "Shut up, little prick!" He then proceeded to stab him in the stomach, though not deep enough to kill him. It was more of a warning, but blood welled up quickly nonetheless. "You godforsaken-!" Scotland's angry screech was cut off when a Roman soldier grabbed him by his short ponytail, pulling him back, and the child screamed in pain and rage. When Rome said something to the soldier, Scotland was dragged outside, held by his hair, and thrown into a cage, in which he curled up, wrapping his arms around his head, which was burning and stabbing him with pain. He was kept in there for days on end, and though plenty of Romans laughed at him or poked him with their swords and cut into his cheeks and shoulders for fun, he never saw that small child again. Not in this camp, or any of the others he was brought to before he could escape. And so he set out to search for the brother he had known for a few years now, instead of the one he'd seen for barely an hour. Getting to Wales had his priority, and nothing else.

* * *

When Ireland awoke the next morning, he felt a lot less lightheaded than the day before, and he got out of bed and went into the livingroom, only to find Scotland sprawled out on the couch, fast asleep. Ireland smiled at the sight, vaguely remembering bits and pieces of the day before and the Scot looking after him. It always did amuse the Irishman that most people, going by the nation's looks, thought he was the type who enjoyed beating others up and drinking a barrel of beer while doing so, but he was in fact quite the opposite. Though, given, he did drink a lot. But he was perhaps the most caring person Ireland had ever met, a trait he'd inherited from their mother. But, tall and broad-shouldered as he was, he came off as intimidating to most people. It was a useful thing to use against enemy nations, though. Especially for England, with his almost scrawny posture, it was very useful to only have to stand beside his older brother. It was a message that said both 'this is what we have in the UK, back off' and 'yeah, I managed to annex this giant. Don't mess with me.' Scotland usually just went along with such things, finding it rather amusing from time to time.

When he got a little closer, Ireland found the Scot hadn't been sleeping quite as deeply as he'd thought, as he blinked open his eyes and yawned briefly before sitting up. "G'mornin', Cearul," he said with another yawn. "How'd ye sleep, brother? Feelin' a wee bit better I hope?" Ireland nodded and sat down beside him. "I am, thank you. A-an' thanks fer yesterday... I didn't thank ye then, did I?" Scotland shook his head, then stretched his back a bit. Ireland could hear a soft snap from his spine, and wondered why the hell he hadn't just used the guest room. A bed was so much more comfortable than this old, worn couch. "But that's all right," the Scot said, answering his brother. "I know yer grateful, an' I could tell by yer eyes if it wasn't obvious enough yet. Dun'thank me, ye would'a done the same, after all." Ireland nodded, agreeing to this. Much to his annoyance, Scotland wasn't all that convinced he was feeling better already, considering the miserable state he'd been in the day before. He didn't need a thermometer to conclude his brother still had a light fever, but, he admitted, it _was_ a lot better.

"So how come you're takin' the war so..." the Scot eventually asked, trailing off as he didn't come up with the right word to describe it. But Ireland understood what he'd been meaning to ask, and shrugged. "I dun'know. For me, at least, it's just the right thing to do. An' I'm determined not to hurt any o'ye this time, like I did in previous wars. I'm planning to let this war go as peacefully as possible. It's still war, o'course, but..." He smiled a bit, but with furrowed brows, showing clearly his frustration. "Well, I would'a preffered Artie just let me go, 'specially after everything that happened already. He should understand that hurting any o'ye, leavin' ye is the last thing I want. All I want is a chance to live. Even if I get my independence, I won't leave y'all! I just won't be there for yer governmental matters, meetings an' all that. I'm convinced now that we'll stay together for as long as we live, an' that knowledge eases my conscience." Scotland gave a short nod, understanding his reasoning. Now hopefully this would also work out for his brother, and no one would get hurt.

* * *

That afternoon, Ireland finally talked his two youngest brothers again, asked them both how they'd been in the few weeks they hadn't spoken, discussed more important matters like the war and economy, Ireland's declaration of independence and everything around it. The thing that did manage to aggravate England was Ireland flatly stating that, though his people hadn't acted on his request, they had acted according to his wishes. Yes, he wanted to be independent. His government had simply declared him that, and if England wouldn't accept it, that was_ his _problem. The movements of the IRA that day had little to do with the declaration, even less with Ireland himself. He wanted to leave to UK and do so in peace, but if they wouldn't let him go, he'd have to find other methods. He also explained for the first time the fact that his life wouldn't be quite as eternal as it would be if he were independent. Staying with the UK would mean his death. That was something the Englishman didn't quite understand, and worried, he'd asked if that went for Scotland and Wales too, because then he'd abolish the entire UK in a heartbeat. But Ireland explained to him that, since they shared landmass, they were somehow connected already anyway. In an extreme case, even if all of the European mainland suddenly joined together in a similar way, the nations would remain existing and alive. Even if Europe and _Asia_ did so, and Northern- and Southern-America. That had been shown in cases of massive empires in the past, such as the Roman Empire, the Mongolian, that of Alexander the Great and many others. But in Ireland's case, and that of any overseas colony, things wouldn't go as easily as that. Once there was a sea or ocean seperating two nations, it was harder to maintain the empire with every nation in it still alive. That was what eventually drove every colony to fight for their independence. It had happened in America, in Ireland now and many others would follow, even mellow and peaceful Canada, if he wasn't let go in time.

Though he didn't sound too happy, England said he understood now. But the moment Ireland mentioned a simple state of Home Rule would also keep him alive, England was determined to get that done. Ireland would get Home Rule and remain part of the Empire. They were a family, the four of them, and with the four of them they would remain. Ireland didn't go along with the plan quite as willingly. "What?! Arthur, did I not just explain to you why I need my independence? Don't take that away from me, not again!"

"No, you explained to me why you _want _your independence," the Englishman retorted. "And why the least you _need_ is Home Rule. Look, Cearul, after everything we've gone through in de past six years, I'll do anything to keep this family together. We were _finally_ all getting along, and here you are, trying to _ruin_ it by leaving us all -_again_, might I add." His words left Ireland both angry and hurt, and also wondering who in his right mind would _ever _tell England that he'd left Scotland and Wales -_with good reason_\- because anyone could see he would find a way to use that information against his brother, which he now did. He could be very manipulative, after all, and especially after finding out Ireland had guilt issues, he knew numerous ways to manipulate Ireland. Simply remind him of his regrets and he'll do anything to make it right.

_Well, not this time._ "Look, ye little bastard-!" Ireland hissed into the phone, clenching it tightly between his fingers. Any tighter and it might break, even. But Scotland intervened at this point, taking the phone from his older brother and, loud enough for England to also hear, saying, "This is quite enough, from the both o'ye! This ain't some'in to discuss over the phone, that much is clear now. We'll continue this conversation another time, _the four of us_, face-to-face, aye? Now calm down, both o'ye." He then placed the phone back on the table and gave Ireland an angry stare. "See, now _this _is what you mentioned only this morning you were tryin' to avoid!" Ireland glared at him with the same amount of anger, mixed with frustration and a slowly rekindling hatred for his youngest brother. This little phonecall had reminded him of all the things he disliked about England, and it was a _long list_. "Then that bloody wanker should'na 'ave-!"

"No, Cearul, _you shouldn't have!_" Scotland yelled back, for the first time in a long, _long _time raising his voice against his brother like that, and it had the same effect as giving him a hard slap in the face or a punch in the stomach would've had. Ireland was silent instantly, staring at his younger brother wide-eyed. Scotland just took a deep breath and sighed, calming himself again. "Now just... go sit down an' _calm down_ a bit, Cearul. Yer by far not well enough t'be stressin' like this, yer overextertin' yerself." But Ireland shook his head, with that movement feeling Scotland was right as he got dizzy with the motion, but was far too angry to listen now. "That damned child!" he hissed under his breath. "You'd think, after all these centuries, he'd have grown up enough to know that childish ideals such as these just cannot be made true!" Scotland sighed again, exasperated as he realised there was just no talking to Ireland right now. He'd have his little rant then be done with it, hopefully forgetting his anger not long afterwards. "Well, he _is _still a child compared to ye, what with the _near millenium _difference in age. I can't blame him. Especially since he never had the chance to be a child, if ye recall. But Cearul, _please_, just-"

"No!" Ireland protested, clenching his hands into fists. "Damnit, Allistair, I've been tryin' to get to this point for _decades!_ An' then when he finally says he understands, he still doesn't! None of ye do!"As he was ranting, Scotland watched all colour drain from his face, and he bit his lip with a sigh, thinking, _see, an' there's the 'yer overexerting yerself' part, lad._ "None of ye understand the situation I'm in!" Ireland just went on, paying his protesting body no mind, even though he was practically panting inbetween words, sweat glistening on his face as he was swaying where he stood. "Damnit, Allistair, ye _don't_! It's not like I want t'leave the family, I just want t'leave the Empire but none of ye understand that! I love all of ye with all my heart but I can't live like this! _Literally!_ This is something I need to do, even if it hurts, an' I _want to do it!_ But if I have to listen to all o'ye, I will not get the chance until it's too late an'... I..." That was the point where the thing Scotland had already declared inevitable happened: Ireland trailed off, swaying even more than before, then keeled over, his knees giving way. Scotland, prepared for this, caught him before he fell, but he was still unconscious before even landing in his brother's arms. His breathing was fast and shallow, and his blood seemed to be boiling under his skin when Scotland checked his temperature. The Scot then picked his brother up, carrying him to the couch and placing him on it gently, one hand still on his burning skin. "I'm tryin' to understand, Cearul," he whispered to him with another sigh. "I really am. But it's not as easy as 't looks."

* * *

**Well... they'll be all right again, at some point. Eventually.**

**Also, my theory might confuse others a bit, perhaps. So here's a short version of it: so long as landmass is connected, nations are connected. Only if they are seperated by something greater than a river (i.e. a sea or an ocean) are they really _seperate_. They can still be seperate nations even if they have connected landmass, obviously, but a union won't result in any nation deaths. Colonies and such are much easier affected by this little thing, because not only are they seperated from the governing nation, in a way, they are also 'inferior'. Their deaths can take a long time or be very quick, depending on the situation. Only independence or a similar state (such as Home Rule) can prevent this.**

**And that turned out longer than I thought.**

**Also, _fratri mihi _means 'my brother'.**

**And uh... that's it again! I hope you enjoyed the chapter, thanks a lot for reading, and please leave a review~!**


	31. Chapter 31

**Ah, this one nearly took me a week to write... Sorry! And again when I have a few days off from school...**

**Also, updates might be a little less frequent from now on (though still weekly at least... I hope) as I just got a job last friday. Tutoring! I have to help some kids at my school with _really _bad grades in English... But hey, it pays. And I hope it will pay off for them as well, because one of them just has the most dramatic grades I've ever seen... _average._**

**And, ofcourse, thank you for the reviews, follow and favourite, Crossfire, Karano and NobodyInParticular01 !**

**I hope you'll enjoy this chapter.**

**I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

When Ireland opened his eyes, his sight was blurry, and just seeing the light in the room made him realise his headache. With a grunt, his pushed himself up into a sitting position, his eyes directed at one specific point as he tried to get the world into focus. Then, looking to his left, he saw Scotland leaning back in a chair with a book in his hands and his feet... on the table. With his shoes still on. Ireland clenched his jaws as to not make a comment about how much he did _not_ appreciate shoes on his dinner table. Somehow he just knew that a comment like that would do nothing but anger his younger brother at the moment. Tentatively, he just asked, "A-Allistair...?"

"I told ye, ye were overexertin' yerself by goin' on like a lil' hurricane the way ye did," was all his brother said, not looking up from the pages of his book. Ireland just sighed and nodded, still feeling the effects of... whatever he did. "Yes, I can see that now, too," he mumbled, averting his gaze. What had happened to make the atmosphere this tense? He decided not to dwell on that too long, the memories would come to him in time, anyway. Instead of that, he asked, "How long was I out of it?"

"Ye dun'wanna know."

"I do," he insisted, though paling a little at the way Scotland had said that, afraid that he'd been asleep for hours and also a little ashamed of it. Scotland put his book down with a sigh, swung his legs off the table and went over to Ireland. He knelt down in front of him and, rather expressionless, placed his hand on his face to check his temperature. His eyes narrowed a bit, but he made no comment, so Ireland figured it must be all right. He then looked down on his watch, making a surprised noise as he saw the time.

"Well, as of now, ye've been out cold for a staggering 29 hours and roughly 15 minutes," he mumbled, looking up at Ireland again. Ireland could feel his skin go warm again at this, though he had no idea what happened exactly: did the colour drain from his face completely, or was it red with shame? Either one of the two at least, because now, an amused light shone in Scotland's eyes as he added, "But that's all right, Old Man. Ye were really in a terrible condition. I think we were a little too optimistic yesterday, an' ye went all bonkers after that phone call with Artie... 'twas too much fer ye at the moment." The the amusement faded, making way for worry. "At one point, I was 'bout to call fer an ambulance, y'know. Yer temperature was nearly 42, an' ye were just _so_ pale. Gaspin' fer every breath, ye were, an' no matter what I did, ye just didn't seem to get any better. But durin' this morning, yer fever broke an' I just waited fer ye to wake up after that, which ye now did." With a last quick check, he concluded, "Ye have no fever at all anymore now."

Ireland nodded, processing that for a moment. If he was in such a bad condition, then what caused him to recover this quickly was probably his nation body. It must have taken over the moment it got really bad and gotten rid of whatever virus had caused this. Because _this_, for sure, hadn't been caused by economical problems, it just couldn't. He then looked at Scotland and smiled, partially to assure him he was fine again now. "Thanks for looking after me, Al. I really appreciate it. An' if ye hadn't been here, things might have gone very different." Scotland only nodded, sitting down on the couch beside Ireland now with a yawn. "By the way, Old Man," the Scot mumbled. "I arranged for us t'meet with Arthur an' Dylan in two days, so we're goin' to have to leave t'morrow. To settle yesterday's argument _without fights._ It's much easier face-to-face than over the phone." Ireland gave a quick nod, agreeing to this as he inspected his younger brother for a bit. He hadn't noticed the dark lines under his eyes yet, but when he did, he immediately came to the conclusion that Scotland must've stayed up all night to look after him. Scotland only confirmed this thought when he yawned again, his eyes staying closed afterwards. Ireland shook him gently to keep him awake for a few more minutes, telling him softly, "Come now, Al, this couch really isn't that good to sleep on. I don't know how I managed, actually. C'mon, ye can crash down onto a bed instead. Ye can even use mine, since that is a lil' closer." Scotland nodded and mumbled a soft thank as, exhausted, he got to his feet and went to the hallway, after which Ireland smiled, getting up and ready to do some work for the day.

* * *

The next day, as Ireland sat with Scotland in his car, the Scot driving, everything seemed to be going well. Until, at one point, Ireland huffed and mumbled to no one in particular, "Why do the meetings always have to be in London...?" Scotland didn't answer immediately, but he did narrow his eyes at this, not pleased with the question as it meant his brother still did not agree with his arrangements. "The only reasons they'll ever take place elsewhere," the Irishman continued muttering. "Is if it's an emergency. Isn't that kind of strange? What makes him more important than us?"

"I dun'think 't has anything to do with importance," Scotland now interrupted, not looking at his brother as he did. "It's just that the government in the UK is centered there, that's why." Ireland shrugged and answered softly, "But I'm not part o'the damned UK anymore, am I? I'm independent now, I could also arrange a meeting to take place here in Dublin." Scotland's grip on the steering wheel tightened. _No, Ireland,_ he thought. _No, you cannot. Because you're not._ Deciding to rephrase that in a way it wouldn't aggravate his brother, who was clearly on edge with the prospect of meeting with England. "Cearul, sorry to tell ye, but yer not independent. Not yet."

"Oh, but I am," Ireland stated matter-of-factly, staring out of the window. "I've been declared independent, so I am. All ye have t'do is acknowledge it, an' we'll be over with it all." Scotland shook his head, shooting Ireland a sideward glance. "That's ridiculous. That, Cearul, would mean yer out o'danger o'dying, which yer not." He didn't like to say this, not at all, but Ireland wasn't making any sense right now, and Scotland just didn't know whether he actually believed this or he was just mumbling nonsense. If it was the former, he'd have to get that thought out of his head quickly. Very quickly. "Only if this war ends with ye winnin' or us acknowledging the declaration will ye- _oh._" Suddenly it dawned on him what his brother was trying to tell him, and he sighed. "That's what ye mean. Well, Cearul, once ye've earned it, I'll be the first to acknowledge yer independence, I swear, but... not yet. It's a lil' too sudden fer that, I'm afraid." Ireland only huffed, looking out the window. He didn't sound particularly angry. In fact, he sounded rather emotionless at that moment, and Scotland decided to just let him be. So long as they wouldn't start fighting on their way to London...

* * *

Wales looked nervously from Ireland to England and back again as they sat around a table, waiting for this discussion to start. All the hatred between the two had returned with a vengeance, it seemed, and England had already gone into emotional-wall mode, addressing his brother as Ireland instead of Cearul. Ireland did the same, only calling his little brother Sasana instead, the Gaelic name for England. The only way they looked at eachother was with a glare, and Wales only watched and listened in silence, exchanging glances with Scotland every now and then. They were both beginning to wonder whether this had been such a good idea after all.

"So first, I would like an explanation why you wouldn't want Home Rule anymore, Ireland," England demanded after a moment of silence. "His Majesty tols you to only wait until after the war, did he not? Why is that suddenly not good enough for you anymore?" Ireland only huffed and stared at him as though he'd lost his mind. Wasn't it obvious? "I want to leave," he answered matter-of-factly. "_Liom ag iarraidh a bheith mé féin_. And ye'd never give me that chance, even if ye'd give me Home Rule."

England's eyes widened only slightly at the part where his brother began to speak Gaelic, and he tried to translate it in his mind. _Liom is 'I'... a bheith means 'to be'... damnit._ He eventually got to 'I want to be...' but no further than that, so he just continued staring at Ireland, not showing any of his frustration. Ireland knew very well that his brother didn't know what he'd said, however, and he grinned. "_Nach bhfuil duit a thuiscint_... _Is é sin gleoite, deartháir_." Now, England growled softly under his breath, and thought of something to get back at him, if only for a moment. "_Stupidus es? Valde puerile est, Hibernia. Loquere lingua anglica._"

Ireland blinked at him, confused, then asked, "Wait... was that Latin?" England only gave a short nod, and Ireland sighed, frowning. "_Fine_," he said, sounding rather annoyed. "I get it. English it is. Since when do you speak Latin, anyway?"

"Oh, just since the first 150 years of my life, give or take. But you wouldn't know, ofcourse. You were never there, after all." Having said that, England straightened his back and stared Ireland straight in the eyes. "We all know what the very first thing is that made me hate you," he stated. "You abandoned me and I doubt I'll ever be able to forgive you for that. Yet, I want nothing more than to keep you in our shared empire, and you are the one who wants to leave. Why?" Ireland just gave him the same 'isn't it obvious?' stare as before, then sighed as he realised his little brother really didn't understand.

"Well, if ye really think 'bout it, yer just a lil' brat who's done nothin' but ruin my life," he stated, averting his gaze, feigning boredom. "That's why. I've got nothin' against Dylan and Allistair, but ye've ruined my life from the moment ye were born." England's face went blank at this, and he listened in silence to what his brother had to say, just the slightest hint of pain in his emerald eyes. "Our life was _perfect_ once," Ireland continued, gesturing towards Wales and Scotland. "Three very close brothers, eachother's best friends, and a caring mother we all loved dearly. Brittania was amazing in every way, an' not just because she's our mother. Hell, her people worshipped her as a goddess! Kind, caring, warm personality with the fierceness of a wild beast to protect what she held dear. An' then, one day, a man from the mainland came. The Roman Empire. He destroyed our lives an' everythin' we had one step at a time, starting with _you._" England paled at this, staring at his oldest brother with a hurt expression. Wales could still only watch, and he folded his hands into fists under the table. Ireland had no right to be talking like this, and yet, what could they do to stop him? This was, after all, one of those things one just needs to say in order to let go of any feelings attached to it. Once he'd had his moment, surely things would be all right again...

"Yer birth was the first step towards the destruction of everythin' we held dear back then," Ireland began, glaring at England with unhidden hatred now. "It killed our mother. _You_ killed our mother. An' with her the peace. An' I know I left Dylan an' Allistair not too long after, but ye know what it's like, being away from the land yer connected to. _It's unbearable._ I simply _had_ to go, it was never my intention to leave them. An' when I returned, what did I encounter? My two little brothers, separated from eachother, only rarely allowed to be together by the new ruler of the land, the one that ruled one of them and frequently hurt the other. Again, yes, the Roman Empire. An' at his side, a tiny little pest who never lifted a finger against it. Didn't even try to persuade _dear papa_ to be a little less rough on his brothers." What hurt the most to Wales, was knowing most of this was true. But he knew for a fact that Rome hadn't been a real parent to England at the time, ruled him with the same iron fists he ruled the rest of his empire with. The child had only stayed with him to try to get _some _confirmation that there was someone who cared about him. That was the part Ireland either didn't know, or liked to forget a lot.

With what Ireland said next, his stomach did a somersault, and he just couldn't bring himself to look at England now. He just couldn't look and see his expression. "Ye've never been a part o'this family, Sasana. Ye speakin' Latin just now only proves my point: yer not Celtic, yer _Roman._ Ye've never understood us an' ye never will. So what gives ye the right to rule us? Yer _inborn superiority?_ _Son of the __**great**__ Roman Empire?_ Yer not my brother. Never have been, never will be. An' now, I'm sick o'bein' ruled by ye, an' I'll do _anything_ to get away from yer domination. Ye say ye want to keep the family together? Then go. Go to France, Spain and Italy, but leave _us_ alone." A heavy silence followed after that, and it took Wales all the emotional strength he had to turn and look at England now. The younger nation stared at Ireland, trying very hard to keep it together, but his emotional wall was crumbling. He looked away for a moment, took a deep breath, then looked up at Ireland again.

"I won't deny that I am Roman," he said softly, just the slightest shiver in his voice. "Because it is a fact. But I am also Celtic. _I am both, Ireland._ France and Spain are my brothers, but so are you. And I-" Ireland scoffed now, interrupting England. "Fine then, part Roman, part Celtic. I dun'care. My point still stands: yer not one of us, so stop trying to be that." At this, England got up, glaring at Ireland, his emerald eyes glassy. "You know what?" he hissed at him, turning around. "I'm not even having this conversation with you, not like this. There's no talking to you now, that much is clear. Come back when you've regained some sanity." That said, he walked out of the room and closed the door with a loud bang, leaving his three older brothers to stare after him. Ireland only sat in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, looking rather pleased with his achievement. Both Wales and Scotland glared at him, and he just returned the stare as if he'd done nothing wrong. "You're not the only one with feelings, you know," Scotland said, furious. "Good job at trampling all over Artie's." Ireland only shrugged and looked away silently, and Scotland turned to Wales. "Go after him, see if he's all right. I'll deal with Cearul for now." Wales gave a short nod, shot his oldest brother another glare, and then followed England.

"Cearul, fer Heaven's sake!" Scotland exclaimed in rage the moment Wales left the room. "What gives ye the right to talk to him like that?" Ireland only shrugged again, mumbling, "The same thing that gives _him_ the right to rule over us: _nothing._ But that has never stopped him before, has it? It's called vengeance, brother. All the emotional suffering he's given me over the years, given back to him, but _all at once._" Suddenly, he was yanked up by Scotland, who held him tightly by the collar of his shirt, teeth bared at him in rage, blue eyes on fire. For a moment, Ireland thought he'd get a good punch in the face, breaking his nose and losing a few teeth like Scotland sometimes did with humans if the got him _this_ angry, which wasn't an easy task. But after a moment of silence, he was only swung aside, falling hard onto his back, Scotland towering above him. "_Get out of my sight,_" the Scot said, a mixture between a yell and a growl, sounding downright furious. "Before I change my mind and rip out yer filthy tongue." Ireland nearly flinched, but managed to prevent this as he got to his feet, hissing back, "_With pleasure._ I didn't want to come here in the first place." As he spun around and walked out of the house and into the streets of London, a feeling of shame like he'd never experienced before crashed over him like a tidal wave. He'd crossed the line over and over again today, and acted as though he didn't care. He'd meant to hurt England, yes, as that was all part of his tactic. He'd make it up to him once he was free. But the way Scotland had reacted had shocked him, and he had been absolutely terrified for a moment. So much rage... He wondered if he could ever make it right again. He doubted it.

* * *

"Arthur?" Wales said softly as he walked up to his younger brother, who had his back turned to him. "Are you okay?" England sighed and shrugged, shaking his head briefly. "To be honest," he mumbled. "I don't know..." Wales went to stand beside him, placing his hand on his shoulder, giving him a reassuring smile. "I'm sure it will be fine, Artie. He's just angry right now, he didn't mean any of that, I'm sure." But England only sighed and looked away again, and Wales' heart sank. If even _he_ had been offended and hurt by Ireland's harsh words, he could only imagine how bad it was for England. "I think he did," England whispered, still not looking Wales in the eye. "I know I've been a right arse to him for the past seven centuries, but he's hated me all my life. From day one, he's hated me with all his heart. I think he meant every word of it." But Wales shook his head, refusing to believe that.

"But it's true, isn't it?" England went on, his voice quivering with emotion now. "I'm not one of you, not really. We're brothers, but I'm... I'm too different. I'm not entirely Celtic like all of you are." Wales now went to stand in front of England, holding him by the shoulders and forcing him to look his brother in the eye. "Don't ever think that! Hell, who cares that you're Roman as well! _I _have Roman influences from the time I spend as his colony! We even have Germanic influences! And besides, your heart is Celtic, and that is what matters." He now placed one hand over his little brother's heart, and England stared at him, a little confused. "As long as you're one of us in here," Wales said with a warm smile. "You'll be one of us in _here_, too." With his last few words, he placed his other hand over his own heart. England sighed, a relieved one, now that he realised they didn't all think the way Ireland did. He wasn't the odd one out in this family, not at all.

"You should write a book, Dylan," he stated suddenly after a few moments of silence, and Wales blinked, surprised at this. England only smiled at him as he explained, "You have a way with words, brother... Really, you should write a book. It would be a bestseller." Wales now closed his eyes and laughed, nodding. "Perhaps one day!" But as he laughed, England's silence didn't go unnoticed by him, and he soon stopped himself again and looked at him. The younger nation's shoulders were trembling, his jaws clenched as silent tears made their way down his face, and Wales pulled him into a hug. "Oh, Arthur," he sighed. "He really got to you this time, didn't he?" England put his arms around his older brother now, returning the embrace as he allowed his tears to fall for once. He'd never imagined Ireland could be so cruel with his words, and it had hurt him to the very core. But yet, he couldn't bring himself to return the hate. He just couldn't.

* * *

**If I have to be honest... Ireland was a real ass in this chapter. But with these things, I can hardly let England always be the 'bad' one, right? That would make it seem as though I've picked sides... (hahaha... of_course_ not...! -.-')**

**He's my darling character, but he can be so cruel as well sometimes. But then again, aren't they all?**

**Also, translations~ (don't expect the Irish to be Irish... but after four years of Latin in school, I do hope the Latin is actual Latin!)**

_**_Liom ag iarraidh a bheith mé féin_**_** -**** I want to be myself**

_**_Nach bhfuil duit a thuiscint_... _Is é sin gleoite, deartháir_**_** \- You don't understand it... that's cute, brother.**

_**Stupidus es? Valde puerile est, Hibernia. Loquere lingua anglica **_**\- Are you stupid? That's very childish, Ireland. Speak English.**

**Anyway, I'm not sure when the next chapter will be up. Soon, I hope. Soon.**

**Thanks a lot for reading, and I hope you liked it!**


	32. Chapter 32

**Well, this didn't take me as long as I thought at first... and wasn't as short, either. But that's not a bad thing.**

**Crossfire and Karano, thanks for the reviews! Wow, how different can opinions be...? One calling Ireland's actions evil, the other cheering him on... I'm somewhere inbetween, to be honest.**

**I hope you'll enjoy this chapter!**

**I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

Four days after the meeting, Ireland was still in London. He just couldn't bring himself to leave quite yet, hoping he would somehow run into England, Wales or Scotland on the streets, though he was pretty certain the latter two had returned home by now. Though he doubted he could, somehow he just had to make it right again. His actions of a few days prior had been unforgivable, and though he didn't want to be forgiven, he hoped to at least get a confirmation that England was still okay, that he hadn't damaged him. Not too much, that is. He had figured hurting him emotionally, getting him to hate his older brother so much he'd prefer to _kick him out_ of the UK instead of waiting for Ireland to claim independence on his own, had been a perfect tactic to get what he needed so desperately. But once he saw how wrong that method was in every possible way, it had already been too late. "They're better off without me," he sighed to himself as he was walking through the streets of London. But then he shook his head, forcing that thought out of his head again. Such thoughts had nearly destroyed him not too long ago, and he would _not_, no matter what, sink that deep again. The time of depression, self-loathing and self-harm was over for good.

He had the key to England's house, ofcourse, but he didn't dare go there now. Not until he was certain that Scotland at least was away. He wondered if he could ever restore his relationship with the Scot after what he did. Everytime he thought about it, he could still see Scotland's eyes practically piercing him. It had obviously taken all the self-restraint Scotland had to not break his brother's neck and tear out his throat. He'd looked ready to brutally murder Ireland, and that had been terrifying.

With another sigh, he decided to walk back to the small hotel he was staying in. Ofcourse he'd used a false name, though. 'Ireland' didn't really work these days, not around these parts. And he'd had to think of a last name as well, because that was something the nations just didn't have. They had human names to address eachother by and for their leaders to use, every other person or nation just called them by their nation name. That was all they were ever used for, so they'd never needed a last name. That was rather inconvenient now, though. Perhaps they should think about getting a family name as well someday.

Somehow, he decided, he'd get to talk to England soon. And hopefully he could make his mistakes right. Hopefully...

* * *

Though England had only used it as a joke four days ago, something to bring his mind to another subject, he was now utterly convinced Wales should start writing. Wales wasn't. "Perhaps one day," he'd said. "When the economy is okay again and people will actually _read_ books instead of using them to wrap their lunch in." England had only laughed. How terribly true that was. Well, the part about how people didn't buy books or anything of the sort these days, at least. There simply wasn't enough money for that, not yet.

"You can get me to practically bawl my eyes out with one simple sentence," England had protested during breakfast. "And that's not easy. I'm telling you, Dylan, you'd go into history if you ever publish a novel."

"Ah, but I'm already in history," was all Wales had said. "And besides, with recent events, it has been proved that it isn't all that hard to get you to cry these days. But that's because you're already on edge all the time... makes it that much easier." England sighed. He just didn't understand, did he? The day before, when England had again voiced his doubts about belonging to the family after what Ireland had told him, Wales had started talking about Brittania. "You know," he'd said. "I don't even remember what she looked like. But I do know that, if I want to remember, all I really have to do is look at you. Really, you look so much like her... there's no doubt possible that you are her son, which makes you our little brother. And don't let anybody tell you otherwise." After that, England had begun to curse his brother, calling him a bloody git and a stupid arse and whatever he could think of before swinging his arms around his neck and holding onto him like that for about five minutes. And yes, he'd cried. Though only a little, ofcourse.

Now, Wales had just left, on his way home again, and England was sorting through some documents on the ongoing war, get his study a little more organised again. It was becoming a mess. He'd just look through them and decide which could stay and which could go. But he wasn't even halfway finished when the phone rang, and with a sigh he went to pick it up. "England spea- Oh. Hello, America." Indeed, the moment he picked up the phone, the young nation gave him his usual greeting. "Hey there, British dude! How're ya?" England sighed again, already annoyed with him, and wondered once again what he'd done wrong in raising the kid. Somewhere, somehow, he must have done something wrong, but he couldn't really imagine what. "Well, not too great, actually," he answered, feigning exhaustion. It was the only way he knew he could keep conversations with America short, unfortunately, and he was too busy to have an obnoxious American talking to him for nearly an hour. Thank God he called perhaps twice a year. "So if you don't mind-"

"Ah, that's okay, old dude! Economy's a bitch, right? Anyway, I was wondering-"

"For the record, Alfred, I'm not old," England interrupted him, getting more than a little annoyed by now. "You're just a little kid compared to me, that's all. " America laughed and apologised for his 'mistake' (and didn't sound genuine at all, but that didn't matter) and asked again, "So yeah, I was wondering if you and your brothers would like to come over for, I don't know, Thanksgiving this year? Mattie will be here, too, and I think he's asked Francy-pants to come, but... Well, it should be fun. And a way to get the old family together again." Shocked, England fell silent at this. Of all things America could have said, he hadn't expected this. Only when America said his name tentatively, unsure whether to say anything or not after this long silence, did he answer, "W-well, I guess... I guess there's no harm in it, is there? Any special reason?" America thought for a moment then and came to the conclusion that, no, there wasn't any special reason. And besides, did he really need one? "You know what? Perhaps. I'm not sure if we can come, but if we can, I'm sure we will." _Except for Ireland,_ he added in silence. _I don't really see him leaving his little island anytime soon after... that._ Not too long after, he hung up and continued working. Or intended to, at least.

Because when he turned around, he suddenly saw Ireland standing in the doorway to his study, looking at him for a moment and then looking away uncomfortably. "What are you doing here?!" England exclaimed, stumbling backwards until he hit his desk. Ireland flinched and quickly asked in a hushed voice, "A-Allistair isn't here, is he...?" England shook his head and confirmed that he'd gone back to Edinburgh already, and at hearing this, Ireland visibly relaxed a little, which caused England to wonder what had happened. Somehow, Ireland seemed to be scared of Scotland right now... Then he remembered he'd heard his older brother yelling at Ireland after _it_ a few days ago, so something must have happened. The Irishman took a deep breath and began, "Look, Arthur, I-"

"You're not welcome here, if you didn't understand yet."

"I know," he said, still not looking at his little brother. "But I just... I just _had _to tell ye how sorry I am. What I did... 'twas simply horrible. And also, I... I didn't mean a word of what I said, it was... a bit of an act to..." At that point, he trailed off, closing his eyes as he sighed. England still only stared at him, a little more relaxed now. He could see that Ireland was really, genuinely sorry for his actions earlier that week, and it eased his mind just the slightest, knowing he hadn't meant his words. But still... "What you said that day," he told him flatly. "Was quite possibly the worst thing you've ever done to me, worse even than the whole abandoning thing. You especially should know that talking someone into hating themselves isn't exactly the healthiest thing to do, and can have rather disastrous consequences. I really hope you don't expect me to forgive you."

Ireland shook his head and laughed nervously for the sake of doing _something,_ because honestly, that was just about the moment he wanted to disappear from the face of the Earth. "I don't even want ye to forgive me," he said, finally looking up at his little brother now. "Because I really don't deserve forgiveness. I just wanted ye t'know that I'm sorry. That's all." England nodded, considering this for a moment. After a brief silence, he looked back at his brother, saying, "Well then, apology accepted, deed not forgiven. It's not like I hate you for it -and yes, I'm surprised by that as well- but I certainly don't want you around for a while. So if you'd please go now. How did you get in anyway?" At this, Ireland fumbled in his pocket for a moment, then held up a small key. "Spare key. Still had that on me fer some reason..." England only gave a short nod and hummed, holding out his hand a moment later as he stated, "Right, you can give that to me now. Just to prevent you from breaking into my house in the near future. I trust you have no other keys?" Ireland shook his head quickly, and England gestured to the door. "Then go. And don't show your face here for a few weeks at the very least. I'm sure you understand, but I really don't want you to be around for a while, as I said."

Ireland gave a soft sigh, sounding relieved, and nodded. "I understand. What I did was... well, I don't even have any words for it. I shouldn't have hurt you like that." At this, England raised an eyebrow questioningly, and echoed, "Hurt me? That's not all you did, you know." He saw Ireland flinch at his words, and most likely, his brother was expecting a rant from the Englishman about how unbelievably cruel he'd been, how heartless and cold. But instead, he said, "What you said actually had some positive effects as well. You know, I... I've finally begun to accept the Roman part of me, actually. I'm rather proud of it now, if I have to be honest. Person not taken into consideration, the Roman Empire was one of the greatest in history, and to be a descendant of _that_..." He barked out a soft, short laughter. "It's actually rather impressive, is it not?" Ireland laughed as well, and though it sounded forced, the meaning of it was genuine. He was glad that, amidst all the things he'd done wrong in a matter of minutes, he brought about something positive as well. England deserved it.

* * *

Things were rather calm again after this. England and Ireland talked again once, discussing their problems further and finally agreeing that, though contact still wouldn't be regular, they wouldn't try to kill eachother. Scotland called Ireland around that time as well and had a similar conversation. He said he had overreacted, though he urged Ireland to never act like that again toward anyone, because he really couldn't promise that he'd leave him in one piece then. Ireland had only told him it was okay: after all, he'd probably reacted the same way. And contact with Wales was slowly restored again as well. But ofcourse, all that didn't last long. Fate just didn't seem to be on their side this century, and the century had only just started.

In September 1919, the United Kingdom outlawed the Dáil and Sinn Féin, and Ireland did not quite agree. The moment he heard this, he hopped in his car and practically raced to London, confronting his little brothers about this.

"Do ye have any idea what consequences this will have?" he demanded the three of them only five minutes after his arrival. England just shrugged and Scotland only mumbled, "Aye, but ye dun'always think 'bout the consequences of yer own actions either, do ye?" Ireland almost groaned at the obvious reference to his failed speech to England. _Someday _they'd have to forgive it... or forget it at the least. But instead, he just shook his head. "N-no, I'm aware... but this is on a far greater scale! This is international business!"

"You do know that 'international' _litterally_ means 'between nations', right?" England asked with a smirk. "Brother, everything we've ever discussed is international." Ireland gritted his teeth, trying very hard to bite back the harsh remark that lay on the tip on his tongue. They were acting like new nations that didn't know a thing about being a nation yet, all three of them! "Violence has already increased because of this," Ireland tried to reason with them. "This war was relatively peaceful so far. _Please_ undo this, it will get out of hand otherwise!" But Wales only shook his head, sighing as he softly said, "I'm afraid it cannot be undone anymore, Cearul. Look, I agree with you on this -it was a stupid thing to do- but even if we allow them to exist again, violence won't cease. It won't even lessen. That's the thing with violence -it escalates before you can put a stop to it. If it doesn't, it won't stop either, because people just cannot see the harm in it if it's not _'that bad yet'_. Roughly one dead a day... in a war situation, that's ideal in their eyes, because it's not that much. And there haven't been many deaths yet, actually. Only just about over a hundred, right?"

"Yes," Ireland confirmed, letting his shoulders hang as he realised the truth in his brother's words. Humans had a lot left to learn, but then again, so did they themselves. "But there'll be much more, now. I dun'want to fight, but if the violence spreads too much, ye know I'll be forced to join the batlle. An' so will the three o'ye." He shook his head and shrugged, adding softer, "An' haven't we all fought eachother enough the past years? I'm gettin' sick o'this..." England nodded slowly, adding to this, "Aren't we all...? But Cearul, we're not changing a thing about what we did here. Your... Dah-eel and Shin Fayn -or whatever- should've known better than to go against the government and create one of their own. They broke the law, and so, they're outlaw. It's very simple." If he had to admit, Ireland thought so, too. It was a fact. But he'd rather choose the side of the outlaws here than that of the government. At least they were the ones fighting for him and his people, instead of against them. The goverment didn't care about Ireland these days, all it cared about was Great Britain and the state of the rest of the empire. Ireland was just a nuisance, a pain in the ass that they held on to for reputation's sake.

"But, you know what," England eventually said, sighing as he looked at all three of his older brothers, a hint of amusement and also slight pity in his emerald eyes. "Why don't you all stay here for the night? Getting here has taken hours already, I'm not sending you back now. Unless, ofcourse, you want to go. But by tomorrow I expect you to leave for your capitals again. Well..." He now turned his gaze to Ireland, eyes cold and filled with anger. "_You _at least. Dylan and Allistair can stay here as long as they like. But I still haven't forgiven you and I probably never truly will. The only reason I'm letting you stay is because it will take hours for you to get back home, and that would mean it'd be midnight by the time you arrive. Might as well spend the night here, then... But behave yourself or I'll kick you out." With a low growl, Scotland added under his breath, "Or else _I _will." Suddenly, Ireland wasn't as eager anymore... _if_ he had been to begin with.

* * *

Wales was still just as angry as Scotland and England were, but other than them, he worried about his oldest brother now that he was locking himself in the guest room upstairs, not showing his face even once. Not even during dinner. So later that evening, he went upstairs, walked over to his door and knocked twice, softly, a bit tentative. "Cearul?" he asked, uncertainty sounding through in his voice. "Can I come in?" It took a little moment, but eventually Ireland just told him yes, and that the door was unlocked. Slowly, the Welshman opened it and peeked inside before actually going into the room, closing the door behind him. Ireland lay on his back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. His face was mostly expressionless, but his eyes were shimmering with held-back sadness. Wales sat down beside him at the end of the bed, looking at him for a little while until Ireland smiled and asked, "Well, laddie? Ye gonna say anythin' or what? Certainly there's a reason ye came here..."

"I just wanted to see how you were doing," came Wales' soft answer, and he shifted a bit. Ireland shrugged and told him, "Just a bit homesick... Meaning, with how things between us are right now, it just... doesn't feel like home anymore. A bit hotel-like. 'Ye can stay here, but dun'expect a nice conversation with the owner'." Then he sighed and mumbled something Wales didn't catch. The younger one nodded, and a new silence fell before he asked, "And... you're not even hungry after skipping dinner?" Ireland shrugged again and told him that, no, it didn't really bother him. And then the silence was back. Wales was beginning to find it awkward, even, and again he shifted uncomfortably. Eventually it was Ireland who spoke up first, and his words hit Wales deep. "I've ruined it for good this time, haven't I?" Wales immediately shook his head, reaching for his brother's hand and grabbing it gently. "Don't think that, Cearul. This wound will take some time to heal, but it _will heal_. One day, everything will be fine again."

Ireland blinked at him, the shimmer in his eyes a bit more hopeful now. "Ye really think that, don't ye?" Wales nodded and smiled, squeezing Ireland's hand a little. "Ofcourse I do! It's true, Cearul, if you're willing to believe it. If you keep being pessimistic and keep sulking and dwelling on mistakes in the past, you won't allow old wounds to heal. But if you just forget, forgive and move on, life will prove to be worth living." With an even wider smile, he added, "I tell myself to stay positive. Sure, things for this family haven't worked out lately, and I've been down for a while... But one day I just woke up and told myself that I should keep thinking about the bright side of everything instead of seeing the bad in everything. And so I do. And I'm convinced that being positive will eventually result in things finally working out for us again." Ireland nodded at first, but then shook his head.

"Sorry, brother," he sighed. "But I just can't believe that. I've ruined it. An', t'be honest..." Wales averted his gaze, somehow knowing what would come. "For now, I dun'mind that much. By the way, I'm not the one who has to 'forgive and forget' here, so tell them the same. So long as they find it in their hearts t'forgive me one day, I'm fine with it. Right now I just want to go home... this isn't the place for me, not anymore. But what to do at eight in the evenin'? I'm not about to go now an' arive in the middle o'the night. But first thing in the mornin', I'm gone. I'll eat somewhere else, not here. 'Lright?" Wales only nodded, knowing he couldn't really say anything against it. So he got up and got ready to leave, but before he did, he looked over his shoulder at Ireland and mumbled, "Artie probably hasn't told you yet, but America invited us to come over for Thanksgiving next month. You can travel seperately, if you want, but it would be rude not to come. After all, this is the first time he did... I think it's because the war ended this year and he wants to celebrate it, but... Well, never mind. But I hope you'll come as well." Ireland gave a short nod and mumbled that he would. And then Wales closed the door behind him, leaving the Irishmen to himself again.

Ireland sighed and rolled onto his side, closing his eyes. Conflicted feelings like his were hard to have. The part of him that was an older brother wanted nothing more than to go downstairs and talk with his younger brothers, laugh together like they used to. The nation only wanted to leave and never come back. He wanted to be forgiven for his horrible actions and was heartbroken that they were still this angry. But he was also completely satisfied with them hating him, because it was just one step closer to leaving the United Kingdom. "_Damnaigh seo_..." He loved them all dearly, and at the same time hated them more than anything. "_Céilí Mór_."

* * *

**So, the next chapter will take place in America. Change of scenery, right?**

**Translations: Damnaigh seo - Damn this**

**Céilí Mór - Dammit**

**Yeah, he's cursing again... I was apparently in the mood for it myself this week. Cursed more on one morning than I usually do in a week, and when it comes to foul language, I'm equal to the Irish and Scottish... Whoops! I wonder what my classmates and teachers must have thought...**

**Anyway, I hope this chapter wasn't as boring as I fear it is... The next will be there in the next week!**

**Thanks a lot for reading!**


	33. Chapter 33

**And another week went by... Christmas holidays coming up in two weeks, though. So hopefully more chapters as well (and a Christmas spin-off...?)**

**Anyway, I'm planning to go to 40 chapters at most before the sequel. So just a few more until Trouble!**

**Crossfire, thanks for the review, even if it was short! Reviews are wonderful just the same, no matter the length.**

**I hope you'll like this chapter!**

**I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

A few weeks later, Ireland sat in a taxi, staring out the window at the countless buildings flashing by. He liked the architecture here in Washington D.C., but the one thing that bugged him was that it was so obviously Greek-Roman. But then again, he himself had buildings like that as well. It was a common sight in most western nations these days. It was completely silent apart from the engine, though the silence was soon broken by the driver. "If I may ask -I'm just curious-... what brings you to America? I mean, you don't seem American."

Ireland just shrugged. "No, yer right. I'm Irish. An' as for why I'm here, well... t'celebrate some stupid holiday that does not exist in me own culture. No offense." The driver shook his head and mumbled a 'none taken', though he remained quiet after this. And so did the nation, who just continued staring out the window with a sigh. If it wasn't for him _not_ hating America and wanting to reassure the lad of that, he wouldn't have come here at all. But he hadn't had any contact with the North-American nation lately, 'lately' being for the past two years, and he felt he had to let him know he still cared. If only a little. He cared most about the troubles in his homeland, obviously, and on second place was his relationship with his brothers, England not included. _Then_ came international relations, America included. And somewhere after that, England. He'd give caring about him more priority again once the war was over, because if there was one thing he'd learned from previous attempts at gaining independence, it was that brotherly bonds only got in the way in these situations, and this war was his last chance, the way he saw it. And damn, was it getting messy.

County Ulster still didn't want to leave the UK, while the rest of Ireland did. Because of this, the internal conflict Ireland was experiencing was even worse than merely 'brother v.s. nation'-feelings. Not only did his 'human' side want to stay with his family, a certain part of his 'nation' side did, too. And now, he was beginning to doubt his own judgement. Was it really necessary to leave the UK? Why not just go for Home Rule instead? But then he'd tell himself to think about what was going on right now: people were giving their life for Irish independence. And then he knew once again that he couldn't give up now, he had to go through with this until the end. For his people. He'd fight for them like they fought for him. It was the only fair thing he could do, after all, even if it meant his bond with his younger brothers was severed for good.

He didn't have time to think more than that, as he now arrived in front of America's house. It wasn't all that big, but compared to his own, it was huge. And his own was built to accomodate a family of three to four people. Well, the one in Dublin was. The cottage in Ballinhassig was for one to two people, but he'd split one room to create both a small study and a guest room. And his place in Belfast, where he hadn't been in ages, was somewhere inbetween. America's house appeared to be twice the size of Ireland's in Dublin. But, he figured, for today -and probably the next few days as well, as the guests would probably stay a little while- it was just about right. America and Canada would be here and France, and then the Celtic family of four. He could imagine the North-American twins sharing a room, and perhaps Scotland and Wales or England with either one of them, but himself and France? Not in a million years. France and England didn't go well together, either, and Ireland didn't think it wise to be stuck with any of his brothers now. America had made a wise decision to celebrate here and not in another state with a smaller house. _If_ any of his houses (probably one in each state, Ireland guessed) were smaller than this, because he could easily think of him as the type for a castle. Even in medieval times, Ireland himself had never actually lived in a castle, like many of the 'important' folk did back then, but if America had ever experienced the medieval age, he sure would have.

After he rang the doorbell, he had to wait for roughly a minute for someone to open the door for him. At first he thought it was America, but within two seconds he realised it was Canada instead, just before he could say something. "Hey there, Matthew, lad," he greeted the young nation with a smile. "How're ye doin'? 'S been a while, hasn't it?" Canada just smiled back, glad that the Irishman could tell him apart from his twin. Not many people succeeded in that, as they looked a lot alike. "I'm fine, thanks. B-but come inside, it's not too warm outside, is it?" He stepped aside to let the older nation pass, who just nodded. It wasn't too warm indeed, but not cold enough to bug him. Still, inside was better than outside. He then hung up his coat and turned to Canada. "Well, look at ye," he said with a smirk. "All dressed up like that... Ye've grown since the last time I saw ye, as well." Canada just smiled nervously, his cheeks pink. He wasn't used to being praised, even in a mild way like this. He and America were twins, but since his the older one of the two got his independence, he'd grown up faster than his younger twin, and now had the appearance of a 19-year-old, whereas Canada was maybe 16 in physical age. But he, too, was beginning to grow up, that much was clear.

"D'ye still think of Artie as yer dad?" he asked him, just out of curiosity. The quiet nation nodded, asking why Ireland was even wondering that. The Irishman just shrugged. "I dunno, it's just... Isn't it a bit weird? I mean, back when ye were a lil' laddie, sure, but... Physically, he's hardly six or seven years older than ye are right now. 'Brother' sounds a lil' more natural now, doesn't it?" Canada laughed and nodded again. "Yeah, perhaps you're right," he answered, looking at the nation he'd considered an uncle for quite some time. "But -sorry to bring this up- if Brittania had still been alive, and you'd have been the age you are now and she wasn't much older or perhaps even younger... She'd still be your mother, right?" He shrugged now, and waited a moment to let that sink in, also waiting to see if there'd be any reaction to him talking about Brittania, then continued, "He's the one who raised me, him and France. So yeah, I'll always think of them as my parents. But you're right that it gets a little awkward sometimes." With a grimace, he added silently, "Especially considering they're related..." The two then walked into the livingroom, which was crowded already. Apparently, Ireland had been the last to arrive.

"Dude, you must be practically blind!" America exclaimed, having not his own, but Scotland's glasses on for a moment, shocked by how blurred the world still was through them. Scotland's face twisted, a mix between a smirk and a grimace as he added, "An' me sight still isn't perfect with 'em on. I hope yer not goin' t'make me read anythin' this week, because most o'the time I just can't. Can I have 'em back now, laddie...?" But America wasn't listening, staring wide-eyed through the glasses, trying to figure out if the Scot was far-sighted or near-sighted. Either he couldn't figure it out, or he conluded he must be neither, and everything, whether near or far, was equally blurry. Only when the older nation asked for the fifth time if he could get them back, starting to sound irritated, did America take off the glasses and handed them back, then putting on his own again, sighing in relief when everything was perfectly visible again. France, who was reading a book on the couch opposite to them, simply asked, "_Escocia, mon cher,_ are zhey really not improving anymore? That's quite a debt our dear Prussian 'as to pay one day." Scotland just shrugged and answered that it had been Prussia's own idea to pay for any possible restoration of the damage to his eyes, and he just couldn't really care less how much it would cost. He just appreciated it, nothing more.

"You could always charge him even more, y'know," America said with a grin. "Revenge. No one would blame you." But Scotland shook his head. "Nope. Everythin' it'll cost and not a penny more. I might be an uncaring arse about this, but I'm an _honest_ arse." Then England put in, "Wait a moment, Alfred... You didn't do the same to us, did you? That huge debt we have to pay you? Surely it's also 'everything we owe you and not a penny more', like Al just said, _right?_" America laughed and shook his head, but just the way he did this ensured them of it. Hell yeah, he did, as he himself would put it.

"Well, that's hardly fair, is it, lad?" Ireland said, smirking, only now being noticed by all the others. France mumbled a soft '_bonjour_', too caught up in his book by now to even look up, America gave him the usual greeting and Dyland said hi as well, looking at his older brother with a small smile. A smile that faded when England and Scotland did nothing but glance at Ireland in silence before continuing the conversation. Ireland didn't even care about it, or at least tried not to. Once again he told himself this was how things would be from now on, and he'd just have to accept it. And if anyone, he should blame himself. He decided to just sit down somewhere and make himself comfortable. Perhaps he could talk to Wales, or else France or America. And if not, he could always continue talking to Canada, even though they both seemed to be at a loss for words by now. But seeing Wales get caught up in conversation with the boy, he just turned to France instead. "So, Francis, how are ye now?"

"Jetlagged."

_Yeah, I can tell that much, cranky,_ Ireland said in silence. But instead of that, he replied, "No, I mean... after the war." France just hummed, flipped the page he just finished reading, then answered, "Probably not much better zhan you are, with your _petit_ war going on." The way he called the War of Independence _little_ aggravated Ireland more than a bit, but he wasn't going to start a fight now. That wouldn't be fair towards America. But the American seemed to notice the effects of that small comment, and gave Ireland a soft poke in the side. "Say, Irish Dude, could ya help me out in the kitchen for a moment? Still have stuff left to prepare, actually." Ireland didn't really pick up on his intentions quite yet and asked, "Uh... why me? I'm no good with American food, sorry." But the younger nation was already on his feet and pulling Ireland along, stating that he arrived last, and as 'punishment' this was now his task.

Once in the kitchen, America quickly closed the door and went to stand in front of Ireland, who was staring at him with a confused gaze. What was that kid doing...? "Cearul," he began, for the first time in God knows how long using the nation's human name. "It's good that you're here, actually. Y'see, a lot of Irish have emigrated here-"

Ireland scoffed, looking away. "Ye dun'have to remind me, lad."

"And you don't have to interrupt me," America answered, clearly not too pleased. "Thing is, they're... influencing me. I helped you with your rising and I'm going to help you again." This left Ireland speechless for a moment. For a moment he felt as though he couldn't even breathe, as America gave a quick nod, adding, "A good 5 million should be enough to help your government, right? That's what the Irish Americans have raised for you." What was time, again? Ireland didn't really know that moment, it didn't exist at all, and if it did, it must've stood still. He had no idea how long he just stood there, staring at the young nation wide-eyed, his heart going wild. Oh, how he loved his people, even those that no longer lived in their homeland. And this reassured him that, even if they had found a new home on the other side of the world, his people loved their nation and were proud to be Irish. Nearly everyone wanted a republic, and how could he _not _fight alongside them to achieve this goal? Technically he was still a member of the IRA, anyway.

"A-are ye serious, Alfred?" he asked softly, his voice a little hoarse with shock. "5 million... dollars?" America nodded again. "_Be God_... Thank ye, lad. Really, I can't thank ye enough fer this.." America just laughed softly to not let the others in the livingroom hear, and said that he didn't even have to thank him: he'd fought the same battle, and he knew how hard it was. Had it not been for the help he got, from France for example, he might've never gained his independence himself. And now it was his task to help others in their battles. Then he gave the older nation a smirk, telling him, "But now you can help me out with preparations, as I said earlier. I wasn't joking, y'know." Ireland nodded. He was happy to help now.

* * *

"I didn't want to fight him either, you know," America said eventually, and Ireland stopped what he was doing to listen to what he had to say. "Because no matter how much I wanted to be free and even though I felt absolutely nothing for the English in general, everytime I saw England there was always that feeling... 'this is still the man that raised you, you know. Why would you fight him?' And later, when I fought him and Mattie... I mean, they were still my twin brother and my former father... Humans might lose their friends and family in war, but so do we, and we shouldn't underestimate the pain it causes. Even if it is the last thing we want, in the end we always have to pick our people's side... even if it means turning away from those we hold dear."

"America, yer such an obnoxious lil' brat," Ireland sighed, startling the young nation a little. What had he done to deserve _that_ all of a sudden? "But also very wise and understanding sometimes. Yer a really weird kid, y'know." America then laughed and pointed in the direction of the livingroom. "Ofcourse I am! Have you taken a look at the guy that raised me? The moment he found me in the wilds and decided to take me in, I was a lost cause!" But then the laughter faded, though the smile did not, not completely. "No, seriously... I may be young, but I've experienced a lot already. I'd have found it more impressive if I didn't know a thing yet, to be honest." Then he gestured to the work they still had to do, which wasn't nearly done yet, and said, "But though you can keep talking if you want, get a move on with this. We can't let 'em starve, right?"

Ireland chuckled. Well, perhaps that wouldn't be such a bad idea, actually... No, it would. "I'm not really worried about me an' Artie," he mumbled eventually, not looking up from the vegetables he was chopping up. "We've never really gotten along, an' I doubt that will ever change. But Al an' Dylan, on the other hand... Allistair seems to hate me, an' Dylan is only trying not to. But I doubt he'll be able to keep it up much longer. I can't remember the last time they were this angry with me for this long. I just dun'want t'lose them." America hummed and remained silent for a moment after that, so Ireland almost thought he wouldn't even answer. But just when he'd given up the wait, the young nation told him, "I thought I would, too, for a very long time. But when you walk into the livingroom again in a few minutes, just look. Does it really look as if I've lost everyone?" And then Ireland understood. It would take time, but their lives were too long to hold grudges forever. Time did heal all wounds, eased the pain at the very least, and they had all the time in the world. He shouldn't worry so much. Somehow, he heard Wales' voice again tell him 'everything will be fine again' like he did a few weeks before, and has ever since. He trusted his little brother on this one. Everything would be fine again sooner or later. This was the last war they'd had to fight against eachother and after this, they would all be themselves again and live life like they used to. But for this outcome, Ireland would have to win, and he would gladly give his life for that like his people did, he now knew. Once back home, he would join the battle and finish it that much sooner.

* * *

"We have to fight, don't we?" England sighed after a few minutes of silence, gaining a stare from his brothers and Canada. "_Quoi?_" France asked, not understanding at first but when he did, staring at his younger half-brother as though he'd gone crazy. "Ah, _non, mon cher. _Zhe Great War 'as just stopped, you cannot fight again now, zhat would be foolish." But England shook his head. "Francis, I haven't fought at all in the Great War! I was sent to the Navy, if you hadn't heard yet. I spent a year underwater and that's it. Of the four here in Great Britain and Ireland, it was Allistair that did all the actual fighting -for as long as he could, that is." France huffed but remained silent, not protesting anymore. "I'm not saying Al and Dylan should join the battle, and I don't know if Cearul will, but _I will_," England continued with a glance at his older brothers. "It's the least I can do for my people. Do we even have any idea what it must be like to them, to know there is a war and their nations aren't even the ones participating in it like we don't care."

"But most humans don't even know about us," Canada put in, also not agreeing with the decision of his father-figure. England sighed and nodded, agreeing to this but also protesting,  
But most soldiers do, and they're the ones fighting. Look, we can't be killed, anyway. This war isn't that big, it won't leave wounds like the Somme did, and even if Cearul joins and we'll end up facing eachother, no one will shoot. I'm not about to kill my brother, and neither is he, I can tell. No one will get hurt."

"I cannae fight anymore, laddie," Scotland said, leaning back and crossing his arms, clearly not even bothering to try and get the idea out of his younger brother's head. "Can't see 'em properly an' just really not up t'fightin' anymore after the previous war, but if ye want, I won't stop ye. I mean, yer, what? Nineteen bloody centuries old?" Suddenly his eyes widened and he nearly slapped himself, groaning a bit in annoyance. "Fuckin' hell..." he muttered afterward, and the other nations stared at him, confused. He explained without them even having to ask. "In '17, Cearul an' I were goofin' 'round a bit, an'... well, I mentioned how we should be a little more grown up by now, bein' nearly two-thousand years old, but..." He let himself slide off the couch slightly, then rolled onto his side, face in a pillow as he added in a mutter, "I'm way over two-thousand already, actually. Gods, _I'm OLD_!" At this, all the others started laughing, and he let out another annoyed groan. No one was really sure whether he was being serious or not, but it had sure brightened up the atmosphere in the room again, and somehow, England just knew that had been his goal all along. "Come on, Allistair," Wales said, nearly choking with laughter as he patted his brother on the shoulder. "Just get up, you fool."

"No!" Scotland whined in response, face still hidden in the pillow. "I can't. I'm an old man, dammit." Wales shook his head, tears of laughter in his eyes. Act or not, Scotland was being very convincing, and it was hilarious. "C'mon, brother. You're only twenty-six! Physically, that is." Scotland scoffed at this, curling up a little further, feigning anger, to which Wales rolled his eyes and played along. "Oh,_ fine then._ Just get up, you _old_ fool." Now, Scotland did as he was told like nothing had happened, looking at Wales with a pale blue gaze. "See, was that so hard? I already call Cearul an old man, and I should be adressed as such as well. Especially in the company of youngsters such as this one," he said, gesturing to Canada, who laughed again as Scotland added to him, "I'm old enough to be yer great-grandfather. Great times twenty, that is, but I'm too lazy to say _all that_. I'm too old for that."

"I know it's strange, coming from some men who are eternally young by body," France said, nodding, apparently agreeing with Scotland. "But enjoy your youth while you still 'ave it, Mathieu, _mon cher._" The Canadian teenager laughed and nodded, promising that he would. England just smiled and watched the whole scene in silence. Just leave it to his dear older brother to brighten up the mood again, and thank God he did.

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**I didn't give this chapter a spelling check at all, so sorry for any mistakes. I know how annoying they can be, but I don't exactly have a lot of time right now...**

**But the battle is on!... and Scotland realised his age. I wonder what happens when Ireland realises how much time has flown, as he is even older... yikes. Men and their age, truly, and they dare say women are bad. I remember my dad falling into a very mild depression when he realised he'd be fourty or something!**

**Anyway, I hope you liked the chapter, and please leave a review on your way out~**


	34. Chapter 34

**Just over one more week of school left to go until Christmas holidays... and I'm really looking foward to it. I'm beginning to dislike school a bit more every day. For one, they just keep on ruining my birthday next week. First I have to go play _football_ (soccer for the Americans here) which I don't like at all, then I have to make a test (thank god it's only English) _and_ I just heard I have to give a presentation which was cancelled earlier this week and replaced to that day. And so on, and so on... And a shitload of tests and deadlines -_-'**

**But that'll all be over in nine days!**

**So, now that I'm done complaining, thank you, Crossfire, for the review and MiaCarpenter for the favourites!**

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Ireland was in Belfast right now for several reasons. He had to keep an eye on the people from Ulster, for one, try to figure out whether they'd be a danger to the war and its main goal. Second, he didn't want to be found for a little while, not by anyone he knew, be it a nation or one of his human pals. And Belfast was about the last place he'd go to at the moment, so it seemed like the perfect hiding place. He'd join the fighting starting in 1920, but for the rest of '19, he'd try to enjoy as much peace as he could. Joining the battles would result in his death or his freedom. Either way, it would be the end of life as he knew it now, and he needed some time to adjust to that thought. Maybe that was a third reason he'd come up North: to remember the days he walked these streets without a single worry, when it had still felt like home to him and when he'd seen the look in his people's eyes as they looked at him as they passed him on the streets. That look that said 'that man walking right there... that's our home'. It was one of the best aspects of being a nation, knowing that your people thought of you as their home and were proud to be your citizens. In fact, it could well be one of the best feelings in the world. Now it wasn't there anymore, not here in Belfast. Any Dubliner that knew who he truly was hadn't changed at all, or had grown fonder of him even, since the Easter Rising. Here the people had distanced themselves from him because of it. Even those he'd never even seen, those that did not know him at all, would avoid him one way or the other.

He decided to go to his favourite pub in the city later in the evening. The owner and employees knew who he was, and as did some of the regulars there, but he didn't mind them. They served some great beer and even better whiskey, and in all honesty, some good alcohol was just what he needed right now. The moment he walked in, the owner, a man in his early sixties, recognised him immediately and said loud enough for the entire pub to hear, "Hey, people, would ya look a'that! Our _dear_ nation 'as come fer a visit!" It was silent in an instant, and all eyes were turned on him. Good, they were trying to make him feel uncomfortable and not welcome here... mission accomplished, but he refused to show it. So with a smirk, he just answered, "Visit? Nah, just some o'yer whiskey! Y'know it's one o'me favourites." He sat down at the bar and added, "Though I could do with some good gossip as well, o'course. Another specialty o'yers. To be honest, I needa catch up on things here in Belfast again."

"Yeah, I bet!" the man replied, pouring a pint for the nation. "Ya 'aven't been in town lately, 'ave ya? If ya 'ad, we'da seen ye more often fer sure!" Ireland grinned and answered softly that they certainly would have before downing his whiskey in one go. Slowly the other people in the pub started talking again as well, but softly, as if they wanted to hear every word their nation had to say. _Oh, really now?_ Ireland thought, glancing around for a moment, mood grim though he didn't show. _Well, if ye want to so bad... go ahead and hear the truth._ He knew what the old human would ask him next, it was as obvious as that the sun would rise again the next morning. "So, Ireland, just curious," the man began, wiping a glass one of his customers had left on the bar. He didn't look at his nation as he spoke, acting as though it didn't even matter. "Which side are ya on?" _There ye have it._ Ireland drank a bit from his second pint of whiskey, which had just been set in front of him by a younger lad working behind the bar before answering calmly, "Nationalists."

The silence in the pub fell again, and the nation could feel the tension rising. Were these humans truly so against the idea of independence? What was wrong with being a republic instead of a colony? "Really now?" the owner said, remaining just as calm as the nation, shrugging. "I'm a Unionist meself, but not as fiercely as some others are. Yer a decent lad, Ireland, I'm sure ya know what's best fer ya people." Ireland just nodded, finishing his second drink now. He began to wonder why the man refused to call him Cearul now, but didn't really care either way. "We're bein' take care of," the pub owner said. "The United Kingdom is good fer us. Sure, things coulda been better sometimes, but isn't that always the case?"

"Lewis is right," the younger bartender said, and Ireland turned his attention to him after ordering a pint of stout next. The whiskey tasted a bit off this evening. "An' I've always wondered... What are the Nationalists thinkin'? What are their reasons fer wantin' t'leave? An' to be able to hear it from Ireland himself..." Ireland knew where this was going, and shrugged. "My little brother's a little brat," he explained. "Thinks he knows everythin' because o'the hardships he's gone through in his youth, but he doesn't. It leads to bad decisions and carelessness sometimes, and those things affect me too much. But that's personally. It's not like I hate him, but he only know how to take care of himself properly. Others are a different matter entirely. On a national scale, he's just... a lil' inexperienced sometimes. I know ye weren't born back then, but the Potato Famine in the previous century was a good example. Our crops were rotten, and he just didn't know how to deal with that. I don't think he intended to make us suffer, but he kept importing beef and the crops that _did_ turn out well, leading to us havin' absolutely nothing t'eat, thinking we'd somehow make it through, anyway." He was telling an altered version of the story, obviously, as to not aggravate any Unionists here. He knew from experience over the past few days that some practically idolised the English and England himself. But somehow his words made sense even to him. Perhaps England really had thought his brother would make it through on his own, not just with the Famine, but other things as well. So taking a relatively small sip of his stout, Ireland added more quietly. "Perhaps he just has some remains of that childish thought that 'big brother will make it through anything', however subconsciously. I don't know... But staying with the Empire is _not _the right thing, that I know."

The stout tasted wrong as well, and Ireland placed it back on the bar, eyeing it carefully. Something about it just wasn't right... "Well, everyone has their own opinions," the old human said, shrugging, as Ireland was beginning to feel a bit shaky, his fingers starting to tremble just the slightest. "An' everyone 'as the liberty of choosing what they believe is wrong or right." Somehow those words made the ever-growing puzzle in Ireland's mind click together, and he glared at the man. "And you chose it would be right t'poison me, did ye now?" His chest felt tight by now, a certain pressure on his lungs that almost disabled him from breathing. The pub owner only looked at him with not even a hint of surprise in his eyes. "Well," he said, smirking. "I did, yes. If even our nation cannot tell what's right fer 'is people anymore, what good is it fer us to still 'ave 'im around?"

Ireland only laughed, his voice raspy by now. The enitire pub was silent, staring at the scene wide-eyed. "Oh, ye'd have liked Arthur, I tell ye! Same bad decisions, same carelessness. Or have I never told ye that a human cannot kill a nation?" The man paled at this. No, he hadn't known that at all, or he'd forgotten it completely. Ireland picked up an empty glass and smashed it, holding a shard of it against the man's throat as he threatened, "This could be seen as treason, y'know. Attacking yer nation consciously -_intendedly even_\- is almost the same as pointin' a gun at yer _dear King's head._ I could just kill ye now an' be done with it, though, no one in the government would blame me..." With a grin, he added, "After all, the government nowadays is on _my _side." He then dropped the shard of glass without having cut the human even a little, and walked out of the pub without slowing down. Before walking out the door, he called over his shoulder, "But closing yer business an' lockin' ye up fer attempted murder is fine with me, too." Then, with a bang, he closed the door behind him. He'd never go back there, he was certain of that now.

The way back home didn't go without pain. Ofcourse poison could not harm him, but it was uncomfortable to have in his system, and he felt sick as he wandered the almost empty streets to go home again. It would be a night of hugging the toilet. "Fuckin' hell," he muttered, opening his front door with a bit of difficulty due to his shaky hands. "An' I didn't even drink that much..."

* * *

In the afternoon the following day, Wales was glaring at his telephone, arms crossed over his chest. He'd called Ireland -Dublin number _and _Ballinhassig number three times each- and he hadn't answered yet. "Perhaps he's gone off to a forest," the Welshman mumbled to himself, sighing. "Whichever one is left, that is. Probably not a bay at this time of the year... Maybe some other little town..." He flopped down onto his couch, annoyed with his older brother. Surely he wasn't simply refusing to talk even to Wales? He probably just wasn't home right now... on purpose, most likely. It's not like he didn't wander off and hide away like this more often. The last time had been decades ago, though, sometime after the first Home Rule Bill had been defeated. His usual hiding spots were the ones Wales had just listed, but they seemed unlikely now. There weren't that many forests left like he used to have all over his island, bays and beaches were a little too cold in the winter, and towns... Well, that wasn't impossible, but there were just too many of them to even come up with one likely spot. Wherever he was, Ireland probably didn't want to be found right now.

Wales rolled his eyes and sighed at his sudden realisation that moment, and silently cursed himself for not having thought about that option yet. Ireland hid himself more often than this, yes, but he wasn't particularly good at hiding. Ofcourse he was in Belfast. Picking up the phone once more, he dialed the number Ireland had in Belfast, and after just a few seconds, he heard his brother's familiar voice. "Ireland speakin'. Really not in the mood fer talkin' now, though, make't quick." Wales remained quiet for a little moment, quickly analysing the way Ireland sounded, coming to the quick conclusion that he probably had a hangover. Though, how in the world he'd managed to keep it up until two in the afternoon, the younger nation was clueless. "Have you been drinking again, Cearul?" he asked, amused and somewhat amazed. "It's just me, don't worry. The others don't know where you are... at least not that I know of."

"Good," Ireland replied, sounding a little on edge. "An' yeah, 've been drinking, but really not much. An' ye can tell Al an' Artie where I am, I'm leavin' anyway." Wales blinked, a little confused. Why go all the way to Belfast only to leave again after a few days? When he asked this, Ireland huffed. "My people hate me, that's why! They're too much British, not enough Irish here in Ulster. One of 'em wankers poisoned me last night! If they're abandoning me, I'm abandoning them. Simple, really." Wales gasped soflty at the 'poisoning' part, shocked that any human could hate their own nation that much. Sure, you couldn't get along with each and everyone of your people, but there was always some sort of connection... And, well, it explained how he sounded hungover without having had that much alcohol, especially in Ireland's case, with his ridiculously high alcohol-tolerance. "So, ehm... that poison," Wales mumbled. "Have you gotten rid of it yet, or...?"

"Thought I would," Ireland answered, still sounding uncomfortable. "But haven't yet. An' 'twas some damned strong stuff that wanker used. A human wouldn't even have made it out of the pub, most likely. But dun'ye worry 'bout that, I'll be fine by tomorrow, if not sooner. All that's left of it is a stomach ache an' a bit o'nausea, nothin' much." A short silence fell after that, and after it Ireland was the first to speak again. Wales was relieved by this: at least his brother was willing to talk. "So, any reason ye called, lad?"

"Not really," Wales said, a smile playing at his lips as he spoke. "I just wanted to know how you were doing. At America's place you seemed so distant, not just from us but from the others as well. Considering the situation, I'm allowed to worry about you, right?" Ireland hummed on the other end of the line, followed by a quiet "Ye didn't think I'd... start _cutting_ again, did ye?" Wales shook his head immediately. "Ofcourse not! You haven't done so in over two years now, and... I trust you. I know with all my heart you'd never do so again, so it's nothing like that. Just... regular worry. But ofcourse, everything will be fine sooner or later."

"You know, lad," Ireland interrupted him at that point. "A positive attitude might pull ye through some really tough times... or 't might come back to bite ye one day." At this, Wales started laughing. That was ridiculous! "When has a positive attitude ever come back to bite anyone, Cearul? That's nonsense!" But Ireland was persistent on this matter. "I mean yer hope might be crushed one day. Things might not turn out the way ye hope even if ye hope with all yer heart and truly believe in somethin'... It has been like that in the past, an' it will be like that in the future, Dylan. I'm not saying this won't all turn out just fine again, I really hope it does, but... Don't let yerself get too hurt if it doesn't. Because, ye know what the thing about this war is, laddie... Ye'll lose me either way. If I win, I'm leaving. If I don't, I won't survive. 'Fine' or not, things will never be like they used to once this war is over." Wales nodded, knowing his brother's words were true, though a bit exaggerated. So with a smile and warmth that Ireland just _had _to pick up on even through a telephone, he answered, "You leaving doesn't mean we _lose _you, Cearul! If you won't abandon us once you're out of the UK, if you'll keep contact with us, though maybe not regularly... We won't lose you." Ireland was completely silent on the other end of the line, listening intently. "The only way we'll ever truly be seperated, the four of us, is through death, and let's be realistic..." Wales went on, laughing a bit by now before finishing. "Death isn't coming for us anytime soon! Not you, not Artie, not Al and not me. We'll never lose eachother, at least not for hundreds of years yet."

Another silence fell after that, a relatively long one, until Ireland let out a shaky sigh. "If only I could share yer optimism, _dearthair._ I'm afraid I've used all o'mine up an' wasted it on things that went wrong in the end, anyway... Home Rule, but family matters also. I just wish things could be different... that nothing bad had ever happened to Allistair at the front, that Arthur wouldn't nearly have died and that ye wouldn't have all that on yer shoulders... And I'm sorry for makin' it all even worse with me own useless depression back then, ye really didn't need that." But Wales shook his head once again and put in, "That was in the past, Cearul! Look at the future instead for once. Will you please try that for me?" When Ireland promised he would, the two said goodbye and went to do their own business again, but not before Wales practically ordered his older brother to take it easy until the remains of the poison were out of his system. With a short laugh, Ireland promised him he'd do that, too.

After that, Wales went to his stables to take care of his two horses for the day. He'd also go for a walk through the hills with Cythraul, as someone else was borrowing Rosie for a week, needing an extra set of four legs on his farm. Rosie had never been the type of horse who thoroughly enjoyed having a human or nation on her back, and was more comfortable with ploughing and other such things. Her son was the complete opposite, loving to race through the fields like he'd lost his mind. Somehow, he also enjoyed jumping a lot, which most horses didn't like by nature.

"You just like the feeling of the wind, don't you?" Wales mumbled to him as he was brushing his short black fur. He smiled then, patting the animal on his neck. "As do I. So how about we go for a nice ride into to hills, hm? You may run as fast as you want." The horse then placed his nose against his owner's shoulder, pushing him a bit, and Wales laughed, stroking his head for a moment. "Yes, I like you too, Cythraul. You little demon!" He loved this animal almost as much as he did his brothers. He loved it that, no matter how harsh you could be with them sometimes out of anger or frustration, they'd never yell at you, they'd never hate you. An animal always forgave even the worst things and continued loving their owners and viewing them as their family and best friends at the same time. And that, to Wales, was one of the most important qualities of a good friend. And aside from his family, without a doubt, Cythraul was the best friend he could wish for. Even better than any of his people...

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**Unionists don't really like the Republicans and the other way around... even to this extent. Physically it didn't really harm him much, but it's like your own kid (or something close to it) is trying to kill you, so... 't sucks.**

**But there's always Dylan to cheer everyone up~! Or try to~!**

**Anyways, I agree with Wales on the 'animals are sometimes better friends than humans can ever be' thing. I love my cats to bits and they're the best friends I have. Along with two human friends and my family, that is!**

**Well, whatever. I hope you liked the chapter, and thanks for reading!**


	35. Chapter 35

**Ehm, sorry that this one is so short compared to the others. I just couldn't fit any more into this chapter that would make sense.**

**Crossfire and Karano, as always, thanks a lot for the amazing reviews!**

**I hope you'll like this chapter, and, well, y'know... I don't own Hetalia.**

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The year ended and the new one came just like that. For the four brothers, it was hard to believe another year had flown by, a year in which one war ended and another one started, a year in which their relationships with eachother had changed drastically, and they all seemed to be fighting eachother and themselves. 1919 had been a strange year in several ways, and 1920 didn't seem to become any better. This year, they hadn't decided to make a 'fresh start' like they had tried the years before. So far, this entire century had been a mess in so many ways. But amongst that mess lay also the good moments, specks of light in a sea of darkness. And right now was one of those moments. Though, given, it depended a bit on whose perspective you took...

"C'mon now, laddie!" Scotland tried again to persuade his younger brother to come with him, but England looked more than just a little reluctant. "We promised eachother we'd do this three years ago!" England sighed and averted his gaze nervously. "I know," he mumbled, shifting uncomfortably. "But still, I-I'd rather not... It's gone wrong twice already, and I'd really rather not risk-"

"But that's why we're here!" Scotland interrupted him, getting a little fed up with his little brother's complaints. It's not like he'd kill him, on the contrary, he was here to make sure he wouldn't die or anything like it. "To make sure it won't happen a third time!" Again, England nodded, and remained silent for a little while until he came up with another 'great' idea why they should wait a while longer before trying this. "But isn't it also a little too cold still?" He flinched when Scotland let out an annoyed sigh and told him, "This isn't Loch Ness, dammit! And it's spring, it's warm enough already. The lake isn't that deep so the water won't be too cold, either. Ye won't freeze, ye won't drown. Now get yer arse in that water, lad!" England pressed his lips shut tight, a whole list of reasons why he shouldn't learn to swim at all on the tip of his tongue, but he refused to say any of them, mostly because they all came down to one thing: _I'm just scared, all right? I'm terrified, please just don't make me get into that water. I'm scared and I really, really, REALLY don't want to, damn you!_ There was no way he'd ever admit to being as terrified as he was. But looking at the massive body of water in front of him, a shiver went down his spine, anyway, and he was pretty sure the fear was obvious in his expression.

When he looked to his side at Scotland, he saw his brother already taking off his coat and shoes, confidently walking towards the lake. Taking a deep breath and telling his heart to beat at a normal pace over and over again, he followed the Scot's example reluctantly. But before even setting foot in this shallow part of the lake, where the water would bearly reach his knees, anyway, he looked at his brother again and mumbled, "I'm sorry for complaining so much, I know you mean well, it's just... I drowned once and nearly did a second time. I hope you understand it's just _terrifying _to even think about getting in a lake or a river." Scotland nodded, looking over the dark water for a moment before answering, "Being in France during the war has left some scars on me, so I know what ye mean. Any loud sound even resembling an explosion or a gunshot startles me, I didn't even dare use a stove for some time even after regaining my sight. The scent of gas and knowing yer usin' it? Hell, I even get twitchy when I smell mustard after havin' heard what _that_ particular gas did, so ye really dun'have to tell me how trauma works. But all fears are to be conquered one day, especially one like this. Knowing at least the basics of swimming is essential, even more so for us, bein' an island an' all." He then turned and grabbed England by the wrist, gently pulling him along into the lake.

_Well, damn!_ England almost exclaimed when his bare feet touched the water, but he remained silent. _'Not that cold' my arse, this water is freezing!_ He slowly got used to the low temperature, though, making him a tad more comfortable being in the water. "Most important is that ye remain calm," Scotland was telling him as he slowly led his brother to a deeper point. "And keep breathing. Unless, o'course, ye go under, but that's obvious. Now, when ye reach a point that's too deep to stand, just move yer limbs in... circles, I guess. Legs up and down, also a tad sidewards, arms just go sidewards. I'll go find a place deep enough to show ye, an' ye just follow my example, 's that all right, laddie?" _No. No, it absolutely isn't. Let's just turn around and call it a day, I'm done here. _Instead of saying that, England just nodded, mumbling 'fine'. Scotland then slid headfirst into the water, swimming over to a spot a few meters ahead, then resurfacing again and doing... whatever the hell he was doing to not go under. England just stared at him for a moment, then asked, "I do hope you don't expect me to do _that_?" Scotland only laughed and gestured to him to get closer, _walking_. When he was at a point where the water reached his chin, the younger nation stopped, however, stating, "And _this _is about as far as I'll go, thank you very much." Scotland swam toward him, grabbing him by the shoulders. "No, it's not, laddie!" After having said that, he swam backwards to where he'd just been, pulling England along, who let out a startled yelp as the ground under his feet vanished abruptly. He struggled to free himself from Scotland's grasp, then flailed his legs underwater in an attempt to get back to where he had been a moment ago. It took him only a few seconds to get there, turn around and glare at his older brother. "Allistair, for fuck's sake!" he yelled at him. "Don't ever do that again!"

Scotland was only smirking at him, and after a moment, he asked, "Al... What's wrong?" The Scot just shrugged and pointed at him, saying, "Take a good look at where ye are an' where I am, lad." Confused, England did. It was a distance of about five meters, and he then looked at his brother again, sending him a look that clearly asked what the matter about it was. Scotland smirked even wider, answering, "Ye just _swam _that distance, Artie, if ye hadn't noticed yet." And no, he hadn't. Startled by this, he jumped back, slipping and falling backwards into the water with a loud splash. Flailing his arms in panic again, he managed to get back on his feet, then stumbled back again until the water was down to his chest and he felt relatively safe once more. "D-dammit, Allistair!" he spluttered, glaring at his older brother. "You just have fun splashing around in the water, I'm getting out of here _right now._" He'd barely turned around before he heard some splashing behind him and saw Scotland swimming over to him until he could reach the ground again as well, grabbing his little brother by the wrist to prevent him from leaving. "Okay, laddie, I'm sorry," he said hastily. "That wasn't exactly a great idea, I know. Yer real issue is fully bein' under, right? How'bout we try that here, where ye can get up any moment ye like." England nibbled his lip a bit, averting his gaze, clearly not up to the task, but Scotland insisted. "Ye have to try one day. I told ye 'bout some o'my fears, right? Yeah, I get startled by those things, but does that prevent me from goin' outside where there's loud noise everywhere? Does it stop me from cooking? An' as fer mustard, well, I've never really been a fan o'that, but..." He went to stand in front of England now, looking at him with a reassuring smile. "Ye cannae let fear control ye, wee brother. So right here, right now, we're gettin' underwater -just sitting down on the lake floor here- an' yer goin' to stay under 'til ye have to get up fer air, aye?" After a long moment of silent hesitation, England nodded, and Scotland smiled wider at this, proud of his little brother. "Well done, lad. Now, just take a deep breath an' hold that, hm?"

Both nations went underwater simultaneously, Scotland holding England by the shoulders, loose enough not to hold him down, but firm enough to be reassuring. England had his lips pressed tightly onto eachother, not wanting to let even a drop of water through as he held his eyes shut tight. He tried to imagine being on land, but the sensation of water being all around him was too strong for that, and his heartbeat picked up in fear and sheer panic. He lasted just about ten seconds until he got to his feet again, followed more slowly and calmly by his older brother. "T-t-that's it for today," he stammered, shaking from head to toes. "I'm n-not doing that a-again, really, no matter how much you insist, I'm not-" Scotland held him by the shoulders again, shushing him. "Hey, Artie, it's okay. Just breathe, laddie, ye can breathe again now. Slowly, aye? Easy now, that was great." England just followed his instructions, forcing his rapid breathing to slow back down to a regular pace. Despite Scotland's praise for even doing this, he didn't think it was that great at all. It was pathetic that something as simple as water could terrify him to the point of hyperventilation like this. "This one really goes deep, dunnit?" Scotland asked once England seemed to control his breathing once more. The younger brother just nodded, and answered, "There's only one thing that scares me more than water, and that's losing any of you. This is really... my second-worst fear..." Scotland patted him on the back as the two headed for shore again, again telling him, "Ye did very well there, Arthur, really. Overcoming fear is one o'the hardest things one can do, after all, an' yer doin' a great job already. But for now, let's just go home an' get changed, aye? Really, laddie, that was very good for a first time." But England wasn't even listening anymore. He was only glad to be out of the water and beside his brother, whose presence was doing him more good than he'd ever admit.

* * *

Wales was leaning back on Scotland's couch with a good book in his hands, relaxing and not thinking about anything but the story, when he heard the frontdoor open and his older and younger brother enter the Scot's home. The three of them had been staying here for five days, and in two more days, Wales and England would return home again. "Hey!" he called to them, not looking up from the page he had almost finished reading. When both his brothers walked into the livingroom, not exactly dripping but still wet, he asked with a smirk, "So? How did it go?"

"Never going to do that again," was England's immediate answer as he flopped down onto the couch beside Wales, earning a rather desperate stare from Scotland, who said in a whiny voice, "Artie, come _on_. I told ye not ta sit down on that couch while yer still wet!" England shrugged and mumbled it would dry soon enough, anyway, and Scotland huffed. "An' were going again before ye go home! Ye cannae give up now, laddie." His words sounded a little harsh, but his voice was the complete opposite. England only hummed, definitely not happy. Wales put his book down, having finished the chapter he'd been reading, and put an arm around his younger brother's shoulder, smiling. "You even went under, I see?" he asked, noticing England's damn hair, and the Englishman looked away angrily. "Oh, Artie, come on!" Wales laughed, ruffling his little brother's hair only to tease him further. "Everyone has their obstacles, nothing's wrong with that! And do you have any idea just how many people around the world share this one?"

"Name me one nation that's this pathetic when it comes to _water_, of all things," was the only thing England mumbled, and Wales just didn't know how to answer that. Scotland, who had gone off to get a towel, came back and mentioned quickly, "Oh, by the way, Prussia an' Germany will be comin' over t'morrow... Shoulda told ye." This earned him a stare from both his younger brothers, and he just shrugged. "They'll stay for four days. Look, that _ye_ dun'like 'em, doesn't mean I dun', either. I had a pretty nice time with the both o'em back in '14, strange as it may sound, an'... Well, if ye dun'like it, yer free to leave. I'll visit both o'ye soon, anyway." A moment of silence passed between the three until Wales shook his head. "Well, they deserve their chance as well. But where will they stay?"

"Wee hotel downtown," Scotland answered, looking at the book Wales had been reading, squinting to read the summary on the back. "They'll come here after two days when the two o'ye have gone home again, but obviously, my home isn't exactly big enough for the five of us."

"You're a bloody wanker."

"I love ye too, Artie."

* * *

Ireland was looking at his new rifle doubtfully. He hated weapons. But he shouldn't doubt his decision anymore now. This was it, from here on, he'd fight for his independence. But first, he had to let go of anything holding him back. In a small forest, he'd nailed the Union Flag to a tree, and he'd been looking at it for a while now, motionlessly wondering whether he should do this or not. Now he had decided that he should. Lifting his rifle, he pointed the barrel at the flag, finger on the trigger. Taking a deep breath, he slowly pulled his finger back, and a bullet exploded from the barrel of the gun, tearing a hole in the Union Flag as it went through at great speed, the gunshot echoing through the forest. The second bullet he shot tore not only the flag, but also at his heart as the symbolism of what he was doing overwhelmed him. But he clenched his jaws, mumbling a soft, "_As saoráil."_ He shot again, tearing yet another hole in the flag, having to reload his weapon after that. The next two times he shot went without hesitation, and he yelled afterwards, "_Is é seo an Réabhlóid, deartháireacha!_" Another bullet through the symbol of the United Kingdom, and he felt his heartbeat pick up its pace. "_Ní bheidh mé a chailleadh_." A few more shots, and he reloaded again, getting the hang of this now. "_Ach beidh tú_." The Union Flag lay in tatters now, rips and holes all over, and he tore it from the tree trunk, throwing it on the forest floor instead, which was muddy because of the rain that had fallen earlier that day. He then took one of the matches he'd taken with him, lighting it, then dropping it onto the remains of the flag without hesitation or doubt. It caught flame immediately, embers dancing in the air. "_As saoráil_," he spoke again. "_Dóibh i bPoblacht na hÉireann_." He then closed his eyes, and as the scent of the smoke crept into his nose and the warmth of the flames seemed to burn through his skin, he silently prayed that he would win this war no matter the cost. Even if worst came to worst and he'd have to destroy their lands like they did his, he would continue to fight. It was what he'd decided to do. For his people, for himself.

And the chains holding him back were broken and burning at his feet.

* * *

**So the next chapter will feature the German brothers as well! And from there on, I can promise you, the pace will pick up again _very quickly._ I have quite some plans for the last chapters of Rising... *smirk***

**As for the Irish(-that's-not-correct-Irish blameGoogleTranslate)**

_**As**** saoráil.**_** \- For freedom.**

_**_Is é seo an Réabhlóid, deartháireacha _\- **_**This is a revolution, brothers.**

_**_Ní bheidh mé a chailleadh,_**_** _a_****_ch beidh tú_ \- I will not lose, but you will.**

_**Dóibh i bPoblacht na**** hÉireann****\- **_**For the Republic of Ireland.**

**I hope you liked the chapter, and please leave a review! (and again, sorry for the lack of length)**


	36. Chapter 36

**Last chapter was short, this one is a little long... whoops.**

**I was planning to update yesterday, but my birthday came in the way ("No, sis! You can't hide away in your room all day on your own sweet sixteen!" as my little sister put it...) so I couldn't find the time to finish the chapter. And when I did today, I might have gone a little overboard with the length...**

**Anyway, school's over so I'll probably update more regularly. And also, of course, Crossfire and Karano! Thanks for the reviews once again!**

**I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

It was a little crowded in Scotland's house in Edinburgh when Germany and Prussia were there. While the Prussian actually seemed to get along with Scotland quite well, Germany mostly sat close by in silence, not really doing anything. It was still a bit awkward to suddenly pay a 'fiendly visit' to the nations that had been his enemies until only a year before. England and Wales also hardly talked to them, and any conversation amongst themselves was also a bit more awkward whenever one of the Germans was within earshot. It just seemed so strange to have them here. At least in the late evening and early morning, they were gone, spending the night in their hotelroom.

The effects of the war and the debt to France were best visible on Germany, who was nearly as pale as his albino brother by now. They both seemed exhausted, and Prussia had already told them how he and his little brother were made to work day and night in order to earn some money to pay off the debt, along with millions of others. "It's really tough," the albino had told the British brothers. "Beside the usual governmental vork, ve also have to vork on other jobs during the night, like voodcrafting in Ludwig's case. I have been turned into an overnight-blacksmith. Any money ve make goes to the government so ve can pay off the debt, and ve're allowed to keep just about enough to live off. Being a German isn't easy these days." England and Wales gave eachother a stare at this explanation, the same message in their green eyes. _And here we thought our economy was bad._ But Prussia then laughed, adding to brighten his story a bit, "But, I must say, because of my new job, I finally had an idea for a surname! Beilschmidt. Doesn't sound too bad, does it? Gilbert _und_ Ludwig Beilschmidt!"

At this, Germany had protested, "I never agreed on taking on that name, _Bruder_, don't make it sound like I did." But Prussia didn't seem to agree with his little brother's decision, reasoning, "But you're _mein kleiner Bruder!_ Of course you have the same name I do!" Germany shrugged, mumbling, "I'm also Saxony's brother, and Hessen's and Bayern's... even if they're dead. Do _they _have the name Beilschmidt? I don't think so. End of the story." Prussia faked a pout, muttering someting at Germany in German with a thick Prussian accent, so neither of the English-speaking countries really understood him. Perhaps they should learn German as well one day, beside English, Welsh, Irish Gaelic and Scottish Gaelic. Well, and England spoke Latin and a little French, of course, and Scotland still spoke French from the time he'd had an alliance with France. But now that the world was getting more 'international' with the year, it might be a good idea to learn more languages.

"But you must have a hard time as vell, right?" Prussia then asked the Brits, catching their attention again. "I mean, plummeting right into another var like that, against your brother, no less. I could never imagine fighting Ludwig! It must be hard." Germany nodded, glancing at his brother for a moment, and for once his pale blue eyes weren't cold as ice. Wales shrugged and didn't really say anything about it, so England just nodded. "Well, while this war hasn't been much of a burden physically yet, you're right... It's a little harder emotionally. We're at war with eachother, I know, but Ireland's still our brother. We haven't fought eachother physically yet, and so far, the war's been pretty controlled. There haven't been many deaths yet, compared to previous wars, thankfully. I think we'll manage to keep it under control just fine." Prussia hummed, not seeming convinced at all, but didn't speak about it anymore after that. He recognised a sensitive subject when he saw one, at least.

"I'll just get the beer now," Scotland said, smirking as het got up from where he'd been sitting in silence for a while now. "An' no more depressing tales now, aye? How 'bout we compare German beer with Scottish beer, hm?" Prussia barked out a laugh at this, and called after him, "You'll never beat true German beer, Skirt!" Even Germany smirked, apparently agreeing with this.

"Yeah, we'll see 'bout that, Gil!" Scotland called back, adding quickly, "An' it's called a KILT, for Heaven's sake!" Even England and Wales laughed at that, as Scotland's habit of wearing kilts every now and then was quite the laughing matter even within the family. Then came the drinking, something both families appeared to enjoy as much as the other did. England prefered good old ale, he had to admit, but the German stuff the two visitors had brought with them wasn't bad, either. At the end of the evening, when Prussia and Germany were about to leave for their small hotel again, the Prussian albino pulled England along into the hallway for a minute, being stared after by the three other nations and also by England himself, who was getting a little nervous at that point. Who knows what a drunken Prussia would do? Because if one thing was clear, it was that the albino nation was _very _drunk. But who could blame him after perhaps nine or ten bottles of beer. No one had really been keeping track until they found every bottle in the house was empty. The younger nation pushed England with his back against the wall, pinning him there, staring him straight in his emerald eyes with his own crimson ones. "England, for _Gott_'s sake," he hissed at him from inbetween clenched jaws, his expression deadly serious. "Vhatever you do, do _not _underestimate the var you're in. If there's one thing I've learned in the centuries I've lived, it's that every single var, vithout fail, _vill_ get out of hand." England only blinked, confused. This was most definitely not what he'd been expecting. Drunk Prussia was a reasonable Prussia, apparently. "Don't underestimate it. You vill have to fight your brother, England, and one of you _vill get hurt._ It always happens, it always does, and this var von't be an exception. If you vant to get out of this unscathed, then you first have to accept the fact that you _cannot get out of this unscathed._ Understand?"

England could only nod slowly, silently.

* * *

How right the Prussian had been was almost uncanny, as barely six months later, the violence escalated. In October 1920, several Irish prisoners died while on hunger strike, one of which was the Lord Mayor of county Cork, Terence MacSwiney, and short after him two IRA members who at that moment had been locked up in Cork Jail.

Now it was 21 October, and earlier that morning, and IRA squad led by Michael Collins had attacked British Army officers and policemen in Dublin in an attempt to rid the city of British Intelligence operatives. England had been with some of his soldiers in Dublin that day, and though he hadn't been there when the attack happened, he heard it almost immediately. "14 killed and 5 wounded is what I heard, sir," one of his soldiers reported to him. "Amongst which civilians. The wounded are being tended to as we speak, sir." England nodded, sighing. "Good, good," he mumbled. "We don't want any more deaths today. You said civilians were killed as well. How many?"

The soldier shook his head, apologising. "I do not know, sir." England gave another absent-minded nod, wondering what to do next. This had obviously been a well-planned attack, not one of the random outbursts of violence that occured regularly these days. He had told the truth when he said he didn't want anymore deaths that day, but not responding to this attack at all would send the wrong message to the IRA. They couldn't be too passive, for that would make them look weak. Too much agressiveness, however... He pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment, feeling another headache welling up already, frowning. "Dammit," he muttered. "Damn it all. I have to directly discuss this with others." Turning to some men in his squad, the nation quickly explained the situation. "But I don't want to see any violence. We are simply on our way to another squad so I can discuss the course of action from here on. Unless it is absolutely necessary, I do not want any of those guns you have to fire even a single bullet. Understood?" The men nodded, saluting. "Yes sir!"

"Good," England muttered, mood grim. Then he turned around, saying, "We're heading out, men." But immediately after he'd said that, an eerily familiar voice suddenly sounded somewhere nearby. "No, yer not, _dearthair._" Then, barely a second later, he saw something coming his way at great speed. It went through the air like a flash of dark, and when it hit him, elicited a short scream of pain from the nation's lips. He had his eyes shut tight as he clenched his jaws. The sudden pain in his right arm was overwhelming, and for a moment, he had trouble breathing. But, though the pain remained, this effect passed almost as quicly as it came, and he opened is eyes to look at whatever had caused this pain. He was both amazed and horrified to see an arrow, of all things, going through his arm, going in one end and coming out again at the back. It had gone straight through the bone as well, he noticed, shattering it. Calming himself, he looked up, following the path the arrow had followed, and he was not at all surprised when he saw the archer.

Ireland sat crouched on the rooftop of a small building across the street, looking down at his little brother and his squad. In his left hand he held the old-fashioned hunting bow that had been a piece of decoration on his bedroom wall until only a short while before. The weapon had been gathering dust from the time Ireland had still been a teenager, when every other week he'd go hunting deer, fox and any other edible prey for him and, on occassion, his little brothers as well. Somehow, seeing this caused England to burst into sudden laughter, despite the pain it caused in his shoulder and arm. "What's wrong, Cearul?" he called to his older brother when the laughter subsided a bit. "Is a gun too modern for your old brain to comprehend?"

Ireland just shrugged. "No," he answered flatly. "But this hurts more." In a short moment of silence, England gestured to his soldiers not to attack Ireland. Not yet, at least. "I hardly think so, brother," he answered, shrugging, though only with his good arm. His right upper arm was almost entirely bloodstained by now, and he knew that, once the arrow was out, it would start pouring like a tidal wave, and then he'd have to work quickly in order to not lose too much blood. "Really now?" Ireland asked, and England thought he could see him smirking in the distance. "Just wait 'til ye pull 't out, lad. Then ye won't be so confident anymore. I hit the bone, didn't I? Not that hard, with yer skinny arms, but that means it's broken. Can ye imagine, lil' brother? Having to pull out that arrow, the wood sliding through yer flesh, pulling along tiny shards o'bone into muscle tissue, which of course will have to be pulled out one by one... Not to mention the shaft o'the arrow scrapin' against yer bone, which 'as been chipped like a porcelain cup..." In truth, the mere thought of it made England light-headed, and he felt his stomach do a somersault as Ireland's words made memories of his youth surface in his mind. If there's one thing he'd learned about arrows, it was that perhaps they weren't as effecient as bullets nowadays were, but they _hurt._ They hurt very, very bad. England decided to switch the topic quickly before he'd realise again in how much pain he was at that moment, for that would be nothing short of a disaster. "That attack this morning," he asked his brother fiercely, the anger obvious in his voice. "Were you there?"

"O'course not!" Ireland protested. "I dun'kill, Artie. I'm not _you!_"

"No, I can see that, dammit!" England yelled back, losing his calm as the pain slithered back into his consciousness like a snake. He quickly gave his arm a sidewards glance, noticing how the bloodstain now covered not only his upper arm, but also a part of the lower arm and shoulder. He was losing too much blood. He had to finish this quickly. "Don't be such a coward and come down here!" he yelled at his older brother. Ireland huffed, yelling back, "Not as easy as't looks, laddie. Why? I'm not the only one with long-range weapons! It's not like ye can't fight me when I'm up here. An' I'm alone, I can assure ye o'that. So why not attack me, Artie, hm?" That was a good question, England thought, but something stopped him from attacking Ireland. That one annoying thing that had ruined his wars before, had prevented him from hurting anyone and winning the battle. That one inconvenient emotion he cursed now. _Love._

And he knew Ireland wasn't here to kill him. If he had come with that intention, he'd have shot England directly in his head or heart. Ireland was an excelent marksman, and the distance wasn't that great. He could've easily done it, but he hadn't. Distracted now, he was once again fully aware of the agonising pain in his right arm, and instinctively, he reached for it with his good arm. Bad idea. At the slightest touch, a tidal wave of pain went through his arm as the broken bone shifted. He let out a hiss of agony, out of breath instantly, and black blotches appeared in his vision. "See?" he heard Ireland call. "Hurts, dunnit?" One of the British soldiers was beside England in a second, placing one hand between his shoulders to keep him balanced, the other holding him by the arm, so low that he was almost gripping his wrist. "S-sir, please, let me help-" But, well intended as it was, the motion didn't help at all. On the contrary even, the sudden pain it sent through the nation's arm was so strong, he blacked out for a moment. It lasted for only two seconds or even less, but next thing he knew, he was on the ground on his side. He'd collapsed, he realised, closing his eyes again as he was tortured by the arrow in his arm. Next he heard a loud gunshot right next to him, followed by a short exclamation and then a loud thump. Then the pain and bloodloss became too much, and he passed out.

* * *

When Ireland woke up, the first things he felt were the stabbing pain in his hip and the throbbing in his head. The world was spinning before his eyes, and he closed them with a groan. He felt awful. When he slowly blinked open his eyes again a few seconds later, he saw a British soldier standing a few feet away, looking at the nation in slight disgust. Ireland only glared at him, wanting to assure the man that, no matter the state he was in, a nation would always be a million times stronger than any human. Superior to all of them. He didn't have to take this from a human, and especially not from a Brit. The human eventually gave up the apparent staring contest, turning around and walking away. "I'll go fetch your brother," he said, and judging by his accent, he was a Welshman. Though Ireland did pick up something remotely English about his accent as well, so he probably lived near the border between the two nations. Ireland just huffed, closing his eyes again for a moment. By the time England arrived, he felt absolutely sick, and his headache had become worse with the minute.

England seemed everything but pleased to see his older brother, even less so to approach him. He then sat down beside Ireland, who only then noticed he was lying on a bed. For a moment, there was only silence, until Ireland said, "They fixed ye up nicely, didn't they?", gesturing to England's right arm, which was bandaged all the way down to his wrist. The younger nation glanced at it for a moment, then sighed. "Yeah, well, it will take about a month to heal anyway." With a huff, he added, "Had it been a human who did this, it would've been a week at most." Ireland nodded, making the headache and dizziness ten times worse with that simple motion, and England quickly told him, "Careful there, Cearul! You fell from a three-story building when they shot you. Honestly, you're lucky it was only a few broken ribs and a concussion. And that crack in your hip. And the bruises, which somehow haven't healed yet... I think the fractures have priority."

"Yeah, probably," Ireland rasped, then noticing the glass of water standing close by. He stared at it, then glanced at England, who understood the message instantly. "All right, then," he huffed, reaching for the glass and handing it to his brother. "But only because I need you to be able to answer my questions." Ireland didn't care for what reason he was given water, so long as he could get his throat wet again. Moist would be enough, even, if only it wasn't the sandpaper it was now. As he was drinking, England asked, "You didn't come to kill me, did you?"

"No! No, dammit, I wouldn't kill my little brothers for anything," the Irishman answered, getting angry at England for even thinking that. Wasn't it clear enough yet? England just nodded quickly, gesturing to him to take it easy. The concussion really wasn't a mild one. "Good, I... I just needed to hear that. I didn't think you did, but..." He then shook his head. "If you didn't come to kill me, and anything else would only end up... well, like this for you, then why the hell _did_ you come? Honestly?" Ireland just shrugged, closing his eyes again and sighing softly. "To shoot ye with an arrow, obviously."

"Why?"

"So you couldn't fight...? Hell, Artie, I don't know! I just felt like it!" Ireland said, raising his voice now, though not much. He _couldn't_ raise it much with a throat as dry as his. England narrowed his eyes at him and only stared for a moment before telling him, "I think you do. And I think it's _exactly_ what you just said. You don't want me to fight. But... why?"

"Can ye stop with the stupid questions, lad?" Ireland sighed, getting angry. "Ye know the answer, dammit! Figure it out." And indeed, England didn't have to think long at all before he stated, "You don't want me to fight... because you don't want to fight me." Ireland's silence after his little brother had come to this conclusion was in fact the best answer England could get, because now at least he knew for sure he'd been right. He only nodded and remained silent for a moment. He noticed of course how uncomfortable his older brother was, both physically and emotionally. But England couldn't help that he'd been stupid enough to get onto a roof, or that he no wasn't in any condition to leave. But Ireland was still better off than England was: the concussion and cracked bones would take a week to heal at most, of which two days had passed already. The arm, being damaged directly by a nation, would take a month or longer, not to mention he'd been on painkillers for the past two days and would be for the next week at least. It clouded his mind like a fog, not too much to be a problem but enough to be a nuisance. Ireland had done his job well if his aim had truly been to stop his younger brother from fighting. And somehow, he understood. And he just couldn't be angry.

"I don't really want to fight you, either," he mumbled eventually, looking away, scanning the room. "But this is war, Cearul. At one point we'll have to. And it will involve more than arrows and harsh words. You know this, so please... stop postponing it. I won't either. The sooner this is over with, the better. I don't know what the outcome will be, and I don't want to know. What I do want to know, is that at least you know and accept the fact that you're my brother, and I care about you. That will never change, no matter what." Ireland was silent for a moment, then sighed. "I tried not to care, and I succeeded. Or so I thought for a long time..." he said, turning to look at England, who'd also returned his stare to his brother by now. "Seeing ye hurt -even if it was my own doing- makes me realise how wrong I was. But that does not mean I'll stop fighting this war. We're brothers, Arthur, but England... we're enemies. One of us will get hurt an' it will be more than a mere fracture or a concussion. This war won't be over until ye let me go or one of us is near death. It's that simple." England gave a short nod, knowing very well that what the older nation said was true. With an expression between a smirk and a grimace, Ireland added, "And don't underestimate the price I'm willing to pay to win. It's greater than ye could imagine. Greater even than I can comprehend quite yet."

A new silence fell, and England eventually got up and went over to the door. Before leaving the room, however, he looked over his shoulder and said, "Some of my men were talking about keeping you here as a hostage. Leverage to help us win the war. But I can't do that. I've asked Allistair to come over here tomorrow. He'll get you home to Ballinhassig -saftey reasons- and has promised to stay for a little while if you need him to because of the concussion." Ireland nodded, mumbled a thanks and then drifted into a deep sleep once more. His head just really needed it right now.

* * *

The day after, Scotland had just brought Ireland home, who went to the couch instantly and promptly fell asleep again. His healing was a lot more exhausting than any of the brothers had thought, but neither really considered it a problem. No, what Scotland thought was the problem here, was how he and his older brother had barely talked on the way here. They barely had over the past year, even. Ever since that one day...

But looking at Ireland now, he got the exact same feeling he always did when being near him. That feeling he'd had ever since he'd been a small, young child and Ireland had still towered over him, being nearly twice as tall. That tiny little voice in the very back of his conscience, telling him _'Here, I am safe. Here, I am with my big brother. And big brother will protect me from anything and everything.'_ He smiled at this. He knew of course that it wasn't true, not entirely, but that childhood feeling of security warmed his heart and soul every single time. Closing his eyes, he placed his head against Ireland's shoulder like he'd done countless times, taking in his scent and the warmth of his body and the movement of his chest and shoulders as he breathed. Over the many centuries that had passed, somehow, Ireland still had the same scent he did back when they spent their days in the woods. He'd always kept that fresh, natural scent over him, whereas Scotland's own had long been overshadowed by cigarette smoke, though it was beginning to fade now that he'd stopped smoking after the Great War. And as he lay there, he tried to imagine what life would be like without him, without his Ireland, his very own big brother, the only person left on the entire world that could still make him feel as secure as a young child with his older sibling. Thinking of a life without Ireland only brought to mind all the time he'd spend alone with him, no Wales and no England and no other countries. Only them and their mother. And then he realised that, to him, life without Ireland just didn't exist. It wouldn't be life at all.

* * *

Voices. Warm voices softly speaking to eachother, hushed and quickly, but calm. Then came again that annoying ticklish feeling in his nose, and he sneezed. The voices were gone until he stopped sniffling to get the itch away. Then they spoke for a short moment longer, and they fell silent again. The leaves that covered the forest floor rustled a bit as a pair of feet stepped on them, and then a last crackish sound as a small, lithe body sat down close to him. With a yawn, he opened his eyes, seeing only his older brother sitting next to him. "Eire...?" he mumbled softly. "Where's mom...?"

Ireland turned around, smiling at his little brother. Scotland could hardly see him in the darkness of the night. "She's gone hunting. She'll be back soon, Alba, dun'worry now." Scotland nodded, getting up from the fox pelt that served as his bed. "Again?" he complained, surpressing another yawn. "She went only three days ago! And why does she always go at night?" Ireland pulled his little brother, only three, maybe four years old, onto his lap and looked at him. "Because you'd never let her go if you were awake, that's why." Scotland shook his head. No, indeed, he wouldn't. Why couldn't his mom stay for more than five days in a row? Why did she have to leave every few days and stay away for a few, even? He didn't like it. "Because we were running out of food, Alba, that's why," the older child explained, as if he could read his little brother's mind. "Like every year, now that it's getting colder, there isn't enough fruit and nuts to live off, so she has to hunt for meat more often. Once you're a little older, we'll come with her on these trips. We'll all go together, alright? But until your legs have grown just a little taller, you'll have to stay here, and I'll stay to take care of you." When Scotland yawned again, the older brother added with a chuckle, "And also when you don't get tired as fast anymore. Go to sleep, Alba, you need it." Little Scotland nodded, snuggling up to Ireland and closing his eyes, ready to sleep again. But then came a second sneeze, and he complained, "I don't like this..." Ireland only laughed softly and began stroking his little brother's firey red hair. It was getting so long, he might have to start wearing it in a short ponytail like Ireland did until it was long enough to cut off again. "I think you're getting your very first cold, little brother," he told the tiny Scot. "It will pass in a few days, but your nose and throat will stay ticklish like this for a little while. You might also get a little stinging in your throat, and breathing can be a bit harder... It's nothing to worrry about. It is mostly a nuisance, not a problem." Scotland huffed and put his arms around his brother's waist, hugging him gently while trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in. "I still don't like it..." he muttered. But at the same time, he was once again amazed at how much Ireland knew. His big brother knew everything there was, told the best stories in the world and always took the time to play with Scotland, and taught him some basic hunting techniques while doing so. "You're the best big brother ever..." he mumbled, drifting off a little already. Ireland laughed a little, then began to sing very softly. "_Éiníní, éiníní, codalaígí codalaígí. Éiníní, éiníní, codalaígí codalaígí. Codalaígí, codalaígí, cois an chlaí amuigh, cois an chlaí amuigh..."_ Scotland didn't hear any more than that, as he was already asleep again, smiling as he was.

As this memory and so many more like it began to flood his mind, Scotland leaned against Ireland completely, as gently as he could to not wake him up. He realised once again how much his older brother meant to him, and just how much he missed him already.

* * *

**So, the reason for Prussia choosing his surname because of his job as a blacksmith: if I'm not mistaken, (and I hardly think I am, as this sounds almost like the Dutch version "Bijl Smid") "Beilschmidt" directly translates to "Axe Smith" or something like it.**

**And that's it! Thanks a lot for reading, and I hope you liked this chapter!**


	37. Chapter 37

**First of all, merry christmas everyone, that is, if I don't post the next chapter before it!**

**And the usual thing that just never gets old in my opinion... Karano and Crossfire, thank you so much for the reviews! (and the 'happy belated birhtday', of course, thank you for that Crossfire!) Oh, and Karano... the action is in _this_ chapter, compared to the last one XD**

**Then, I want to say that I've already finished the next chapter. So if you guys want me to post it before christmas, I will. It can be like... my christmas present to my readers or something. (Though it's not going to be fluffy and sweet. At all.) If not, then I'll post it after christmas. BUT I could also write a small christmas one-shot, which WILL be fluffy. Your choice! (...no, you don't have to tell me that I should take time to celebrate with my family, because we won't really be able to celebrate. We'll have fun, though, but I need something to spend my time on.)**

**Anyway, I hope you'll the chapter! I don't own Hetalia.**

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On November 26, Scotland was about to leave Ireland again, but first the two were having the conversation they had needed for so long, trying to solve any problem between them once and for all. "I'm not on yer side, Cearul," Scotland said eventually. "I don't want ye to leave. But neither am I against ye. Even if I could fight, I wouldna 'ave. I just... cannae pick sides. Not between ye an' Artie." Ireland shook his head, understanding. "An' I dun'expect ye to, lad. Even I'm havin' a hard time with that, an' I _am _one o'the sides." With a sigh, he added, "Look, I want to fight this war, I really do. But I don't want to fight any o'ye three. When I heard my men spreadin' rumours 'bout England bein' in Dublin... I went to find Artie immediately an' made sure he couldn't fight, because if any of us gets hurt in this war, it'll be _me_. Understood? I won't let anything happen to ye. Not personally. I can't make the same promise for yer people or yer landmass, but ye'll stay unharmed physically. I promise." Scotland nodded, understanding very well Ireland's reasons for saying this. But then he let out a sigh and let his shoulders hang in defeat. "I guess," he mumbled softly. "I guess I'm just havin' a hard time adjusting to the thought o'losin' ye, Old Man. Because either way, we'll lose ye, an'-"

"Ye won't!" Ireland interrupted him before he could speak any further, grabbing him by the shoulders and forcing him to look his older brother in the eyes. "Ye won't _lose_ me, Al! An' I won't lose ye! Even... even if I dun'make it, lad, I'll always be there, right beside the three o'ye an' behind ye in everythin' ye do. I'll never truly leave." Scotland gave another short nod, closing his eyes. Oh, he knew that, of course he did. He knew very well... "Allistair, really, it will be okay," Ireland said again, pulling his younger brother a little closer as he noticed how tense he was. Scotland immediately took the chance to embrace his older brother tightly, stating, "Yer not goin' anywhere, Old Man, dammit!" His chin behind Ireland's neck and his arms around his shoulders, he said again, softer this time, "Yer not goin' anywhere, ye hear me? Yer _not_ goin' to die. I _won't _allow ye to die!" Ireland shook his head, hesitating about whether he should return the embrace or not. In the end he decided he should, though not as tight as Scotland did. "I won't die," he promised his younger brother, closing his eyes and sighing. "I swear, I won't die."

* * *

Two days after this, a week after the 21st, which had been nicknamed 'Bloody Sunday', a patrol of Auxiliaries was ambushed in west Cork by an IRA squad led by Tom Barry. Of the 18 men in the patrol, only one survived.

Two weeks later, on August 9 1920, the Restoration of Order in Ireland Act passed. It was an attempt to, as the name stated, restore the order in Ireland, though only truly in favour of the British. All they truly did was convict more and more rebels, and increase the violence between the IRA and the British forces. From December 1920 to well into spring the next year, violence seemed to have reached its peak. From the beginning of February, rebels were being executed. By the end of this month alone, a total of seven men had been killed this way in Cork city.

Now it was the end of April, and another battle was being fought in Dublin. Both Ireland and England had joined their men for this battle, unknown to the other. It was only when they brought their squads, which for the both of them consisted of roughly a dozen men, to the same square that they realised they would be fighting eachother in this battle. The day had finally come.

Ireland's heart seemed to stop when he saw England there, on the other side of the square, accompanied by British men. They were a good example of how united Great Britain truly was, as only from the way they looked, Ireland could tell there were Englishmen, Scotsmen and Welshmen among them. For a moment he didn't know what to do. Could his men take them on? How many lives would be lost if they fought? He himself had his bow and arrows ready, his rifle tied to his back. England had brought not only his gun, but an 'older' weapon, as well. Attached to his belt was a sword, one Ireland recognised well. It had been his little brother's favourite back in the day, with a blade so sharp it could cut right through an enemy's steel armor. He had to keep his distance if he wanted to survive. Because if there was one thing he could tell from England's eyes even from this distance, it was that the screamed only one thing: _murder._ And he'd left everyone under the impression he'd learned to control his temper over the past years, Ireland thought, nervous. Apparently, when England was angry, it still meant he was _angry._ Enraged. Ready to brutally murder anyone who angered him further. That 'anyone', in this case, would without a doubt be Ireland.

_But I'm not about to give up without a fight,_ Ireland growled silently. Swift as a snake, he grabbed an arrow from his quiver and got it ready to shoot, pointing the steel tip right at England's heart. "Careful now, lil' brother," he called to him, giving a short glance to his men over his shoulder to tell them not to act quite yet. "I'm not about to kill ye, but if I get shot, I'll take ye down with me, got it?" His plans were changing with the minute, his promises were being broken and new ones were made. Even he could not keep track anymore of what he would and wouldn't do in order to win this war, so he just figured pretty much anything went now. "If I lose my grip on my bow, the arrow will pierce yer heart within a second. Even if I'm already dead when 't hits ye, lad, it'll be a nation's shot goin' through ye. There's no way ye'd survive that, so if I were ye, I'd think 'bout my next actions real carefully." England hesitated after this, but soon told his men, who had already pointed their weapons at the older nation, not to do anything. He did, however, put his hand on his sword, ready to grab it if needed.

"I wasn't planning on killing you, either," he called back, expression completely devoid of any emotion. "But then, this will simply be a kill I haven't planned, swift and effective." At this, Ireland shot him a glare, then the arrow. Before he even did that, England had already jumped aside, so the arrow went flying right past him, almost hitting one of his soldiers instead. He'd grabbed his sword in a flash, and was practically in front of his older brother in mere seconds, not giving Ireland the time to ready a second arrow. Instead, the Irishman was forced to use his bow to block a blow from England's sword, but the sharp blade cut through the wood as though it were butter. Ireland could only just evade it by taking a quick step back. Both nations yelled a command to their people almost simultaneously. "Stay out of this! It's _our_ battle, and we will be the only ones to fight it!" And from there on, they didn't give a single shit if their people obeyed the command or not. All they cared about was who would survive this battle, and who wouldn't. In a swift motion, Ireland tried to stab England with the now-sharp end of his broken bow, but that was only to distract him. Immediately following this, he gave a roundhouse kick to his brother's wrist, knocking the sword out of his hands and sending it flying, skidding over the pavement. England let out a furious roar, retaliating with a similar kick to the shoulder followed by a punch to the gut. It knocked the wind out of his brother, who gasped for air after this. He recovered soon enough, jumping at England and knocking him to the ground. He placed his knees on England's arms to stop him from punching him, giving him a hard punch in the face. It split his lip, covering them in blood, but no more than that.

"Can't ye see that ye should just let me go already, wanker?!" he yelled at his little brother, who was glaring at him. England only smirked and replied. "And can't _you_ see... that you shouldn't underestimate how flexible I am?" A second after that, Ireland got a kick to the back of his head, though due to angle it wasn't strong enough to knock him out. He did, however, let go of England and stumbled away from him. England got to his feet again as well, and as they stood there, a few meters distance between them, they both grabbed their rifles.

* * *

Around the same time, Wales was racing into Dublin on horseback. A car wouldn't be able to go everywhere he needed to go, and on foot he wouldn't be in time. The moment he'd woken up early in the morning, he'd known something about today wasn't right. He had known somehow he needed to go to Dublin, where he knew his oldest and youngest brothers were at that moment. He needed to find them quickly if he wanted to stop them from hurting eachother, because he just knew with all his heart that they were doing exactly this right now, or would soon. A loud shot sounded close by, and Rosie started rearing in fear. Wales could barely hang on to her as the horse panicked. Beyond the loud, frantic whinnying of the animal, he heard a voice shout something, though he did not know what, who or where. But next came another gunshot, and with a loud, scream-like exclamation, Rosie staggered back and fell to the ground. Wales slipped off her back just before she hit the pavement, and he scrambled away quickly, but the heavy animal landed on his right leg. He cursed in pain, for a moment convinced his ankle must be broken, but he could still pull his leg from under the frantic horse's body and move it, however painfully. When his eyes fell on Rosie, whose breathing was shallow and fast with pain and fear, he crawled over to her within a second, holding her dark brown head in his arms. "Easy now, girl, easy," he whispered to her. "It's all right." Stroking the horse's head, he scanned her body for any injury, and he found it quickly enough: a gunshot wound just between shoulder and neck. She wouldn't make it. At this realisation, a lump grew in Wales' throat, and he looked his faithful horse in her dark eyes one last time. "Gods, Rosie," he whispered to her, still stroking her head in a calming way. "I'm so, so sorry for bringing you with me today. If I hadn't..." Rosie breathed deeply, looking the nation in the eyes as he did her, and that moment, Wales made his decision. Holding his breath subconsciously, he reached for his pistol, placing it to the horse's head. She would die, anyway, and he could not watch this sweet, innocent animal suffer any more than she already had. But even seeing her in this much pain didn't make it any easier, and tears welled up in his eyes as he put his finger on the trigger. "I'm so sorry," he whispered again, his voice hoarse with pain. "I'm so sorry, Rosie, my dear girl...H-here, l-let me help you... take away the pain..." He closed his eyes, then pulled the trigger. After the loud bang that followed came nothing but silence from the animal in front of him, and he hugged her motionless, lifeless head and neck, stroking her through her manes for a few more seconds. She had truly been one of the most loyal friends he'd had in a very long time, and to know that she was gone forever just like that hurt him more than he could have imagined.

But he couldn't stay. Fighting the pain in his ankle, back and leg, he slowly got to his feet, glancing at his horse, his fallen friend one last time before turning around and limping away as fast as he could. He had to find his brothers.

* * *

Ireland and England stood tense, rifles ready to fire, but both hesitated as the situation dawned on them. This was it. This was the decisive battle, the one that would make out who would win and who would lose. Who would live and who would die. "I promised I wouldn't hurt any of ye," Ireland told his little brother as they stood there. "I promised no one would get killed. I promised that, if anyone, the one to get hurt would be _me_." He quickly licked his lips, which were so dry they hurt a little as he spoke. For a moment he thought that was all he had to say, but then, as though on auto-pilot, he went on, "However, I also promised I wouldn't die. I promised I would win this war. And I will. Trust me when I say, Artie, that I'll try to win without killing ye. But I can't make any prom-"

"STOP IT!" At this sudden screech, both Ireland and England turned to look to their side immediately, shocked as they saw Wales running their way. He ran with a clearly visible limp and his expression twisted in pain, but fast. He halted between his two brothers, gasping for air. He put as little pressure on his right foot as possible, and for a moment, both his brothers wondered what had happened. "Please," he choked out, completely out of breath. "Please just stop this..." Tear stains were visible on his face, makin the confusion for Ireland and England even greater. What had happened to Wales? How was he even here? And why? "Dylan..." England began carefully, not sure what to say or how to speak. But Wales shook his head, yelling at him, "No, dammit! How about you listen to _me_ for once, both of you!" Ireland and England both didn't know what to do right now, and they gave a quick glance at their own people. Neither of the squads was moving even an inch, so that was good. Everyone seemed shocked and curious as to what would happen now.

When Wales caught his breath again, he straightened his back, letting out a soft moan at the motion, his expression showing pure pain. Ireland wanted to go to him, help him as he was clearly in pain because of whatever had happened on the way here. But he didn't dare move now. Who knew how Wales would react when he was like this, or any of the others present, for that matter. England, however, took the risk. "Dylan," he said again, calm and soothing as he took a step forward to his older brother. "Dylan, you're hurt. What happened?" But Wales shook his head, clenching his hands into fists and gritting his teeth, in both anger and agony. "I'm fine," he hissed, the trembling of his voice stating quite the opposite. "I'm damn fine, you git! And would you put that fucking gun away? _NOW_, FUCK YOU!" Startled by this sudden rage, something he'd never seen from Wales, not even when he was drunk, England dropped the rifle instantly. Miraculously, it didn't go off as it hit the ground. "Dylan," England choked out, almost whispering, completely shocked. "Brother, calm down... n-no one was going to shoot, I swear."

"Yes you were!" Wales yelled back, turning his back on Ireland for a moment to face his younger brother. "You're _hurt_, Arthur, and so is Cearul! And if I hadn't come here in time, one of you would be on the pavement, bleeding to death right now! And don't deny it, both of you... You'd have killed eachother if I hadn't intervened." Ireland was speechless, and as was England. They... would? In his rage, Ireland hadn't even realised how close he'd come to breaking his vow and killing England.

Wales turned to Ireland now, his dark green eyes flashing with anger as he saw Ireland was still holding his weapon. But truly, the Irishman was frozen with shock at the moment, he hadn't even considered following England's example for a heartbeat. "Dammit Cearul!" the Welshman roared at his older brother. "Give me that, you fucking idiot! Put that gun down or I swear, I'll-!" He didn't finish, limping over to Ireland and grabbing the rifle with both hands, trying to pull it from his grasp. But for some reason he himself did not comprehend, Ireland wasn't willing to let go. "Damn you, Cearul!" Wales yelled again, his expression showing nothing but rage. He pushed the barrel of the gun upwards as he tried to pull it out of his brother's hands, but Ireland struggling against this made it hard to do. The Irishman nervously eyed the deadly end of the weapon as it shifted between him and his brother every second, wondering why his hands just wouldn't let go. "You're honestly trying to tear this family apart, aren't you?" Wales demanded angrily, and Ireland shook his head. "No!" he protested fiercely. "No, Dylan, I'm trying to _live_! I'm trying to free my people! That's all I want." Wales growled as he gave another hard tug at the rifle, but Ireland's grip somehow wouldn't budge. The younger nation's strength was fading quickly as the pain in his back was getting more intense with the second. It had been a while since he'd been thrown off a horse's back, after all, let alone hit the hard pavement afterwards. "You were going to kill Arthur!" he yelled at his older brother, who went into protest again instantly.

"No! No, I-"

"Dammit, you-!"

They both yelled at eachother at the same time. But both their voices were suddenly drowned out by the loud explosion-like sound of a gun going off right in their hands.

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**So, ehm... I hope the cliffhanger wasn't too evil? You _can_ get the next chapter already, just tell me.**

**So! Thanks a lot for reading, and merry christmas to y'all!**


	38. Chapter 38

**I'm very sorry for the cliffhanger in the last chapter. It was a cruel one, right before the holidays. I wonder (perhaps you could tell me in a review or PM or whatever...) what some of you thought would happen? Did someone get hit, and if so, who? But still, I'm sorry, so here's my Christmas present to my readers: sadness. Lots and lots of sadness.**

**But after rain comes sunshine (or is that just a Dutch saying? I'm sure you'll understand either way), and this story, for the most part, has been a right downpour, hasn't it? Expect lots and lots of sunshine not too long from now.**

**TheBlondeMafioso, thank you very much for the story favourite and follow! And Crossfire, thanks for the review. I hope you had a nice Christmas (even despite the 'evil' cliffhanger) And don't worry. I don't expect you to forgive me. I do hope I can ease it all a bit by saying that _Drinking Together_ is completely canon in the Risin-verse. So no matter how long it takes, in the end, everything will be fine again.**

**And so without further ado, here's the newest chapter.**

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When the buzzing in their ears from the gunshot cleared, everything seemed to go in slowmotion for a minute. Through the smoke the rifle emitted, Ireland could see Wales' green eyes, wide with fear, fixed on his older brother's chest, where blood splatters stained his coat. Both their hands lost their grip on the rifle between them, and it dropped to the ground, another bullet escaping the barrel, this time hitting only air. Ireland didn't feel or think anything at that moment, his mind just couldn't process anything. So when he heard a voice, familiar yet strange, he didn't even truly know it. All he remembered after was that it was full of fear, shock and pain as it called, a screech filled with raw emotion that split the air. It was exactly that, which made time flow at its normal pace again.

"DYLAN!"

Wales' legs gave way and he fell forward, against his older brother, who caught him without thinking. Hearing his little brother's raspy intakes of air, felt him struggling to remain on his feet and shaking with pure agony, Ireland knelt down, turning Wales onto his back and gently holding him in his arms. The younger nation gasped in pain at this, and choked out, "B...back... please, Cea... s-straight..." Understanding what his little brother meant, Ireland carefully placed him on the stone ground instead, where at least his spine wouldn't bend. He only just remembered how Wales had been limping and how it was obvious something had happened to his back, as every movement seemed to hurt him. A second later, England crashed down onto his knees beside them, staring at his bleeding older brother wide-eyed. "Dylan," he said frantically, holding him by the shoulders. "Dylan, look at me! J-just open your eyes, brother!" Slowly and rather reluctantly, Wales obeyed, opening his eyes to slits and looking his younger brother in the eyes. England let out a shaky sigh in relief, grabbing the injured nation's hand with both of his own.

Meanwhile, Ireland inspected the gunshot wound in Wales' abdomen. It had gone straight through the middle of his abdomen, a dark red stain quickly spreading toward his hip and chest. Without thinking, he placed both his hands on it and pressed down hard, eliciting a ragged scream of pain from his younger brother. "I'm sorry, Dylan," Ireland choked out. "I'm really sorry... but the bleeding needs to be stopped." He then looked over his shoulder at his people, who were staring at the scene before them with pure shock and confusion. "What're ye standing there for?!" Ireland yelled at them, screamed almost, as panic overwhelmed him. He needed to help his little brother, and he needed to help him _right now._ "SOMEONE GET HELP, DAMMIT!" Three of the men sped off at this command, racing to find a medic as quickly as possible. Ireland turned back to Wales, who was struggling to breathe through the pain. Looking over England's shoulder for a moment, he spotted the three Welshmen in the British squad, looking at their nation with terror in their eyes. Obviously they knew what was gonig on, and it was a horrifying thing to know. An Englishman quickly told them, "I've seen them get hurt before, it's no big deal for nations. He'll be up in a minute and everything will be just fine again." But as he too turned back to look at the scene in front of them, doubt clouded his expression.

"Ye'll be fine now, lil' brother," Ireland whispered to Wales, his voice hoarse. He couldn't get it any louder than it was, and he was glad at least he could be heard. "They're gettin' help for ye, I promise. Ye'll be just fine..." He leaned down, almost lying on the ground beside Wales for a moment, leaning on the ground with one arm, which he put under Wales' neck to support him while using the other to slowly stroke him through his dark blond hair, trying to make the gesture comforting and reassuring. "Tell me what happened on yer way here, lil' brother," he whispered to him. Wales let out a hiss of pain, closing his eyes again before sighing. He knew Ireland was trying to keep him awake and conscious, for that was crucial. "I came on... on Rosie..." he answered, his voice barely more than a weak rasp. "She got startled...'cause o'the shootin'... threw me off... hit the pavement hard..." he was struggling to speak, pain enveloping him completely. "Back's just... sore... She fell on my ankle... so 'ts sore, too... She got shot, so I had... had to..." He trailed off, not just because of the pain, but also because he simply couldn't say it out loud. His brothers understood, though, and even though he couldn't see it because his eyes were closed, or perhaps _because_ he couldn't see it, gave him a look of pity. "I'm sorry to hear that, Dylan," England whispered to him before taking Ireland's place in putting pressure on the wound. Wales clenched his jaws and whimpered as the touch sent fresh pain through his abdomen like a tidal wave. It was about all he could do by now, with his life flowing out of him along with his blood.

"I don't think he's getting up," one of the Welsh soldiers then said in response to the Englishman a minute before, his voice, though soft, echoing through the silent square. "At all." When he heard this, Ireland's heart skipped at beat as he realised exactly what had happened. It had been _his_ finger on the trigger when the gun, however accidentally, went off, not Wales'. His little brother hadn't accidentally shot himself, he had been shot by his brother. He'd been shot by a nation. The bullet had torn its way through muscle tissue and vital organs, ripping open veins as it went, causing Wales' abdomen to slowly flood with his own blood. And it wouldn't heal, not by itself. And maybe, just maybe... not at all. Ireland felt bile rising in his throat as he looked down at his little brother again and realised he might die here today. By his hand, no less. A quiet sob broke from his lips, and his vision blurred as tears made their way into his eyes. Leaning forward just a little bit more, he hugged Wales as carefully as he could. "I'm so sorry," he choked out. "I'm so, so sorry lil' brother...! It's my fault... all my fault..." Wales couldn't nod or shake his head, and his voice just wouldn't come to him. But Ireland was reassured by feeling his brother's weak breath against his neck, and knowing he was alive still. They could save him yet. "It's... not..." Wales eventually brought over his lips weakly. "Not your... your fault... Cearul..." He then choked out England's name, but the younger nation shook his head.

"I c-can't let go now, Dylan, you'll bleed to death!" he protested, eyes shut tight and jaws clenched as tears welled up in his eyes. But Wales pleaded weakly, "You can... I'll make it... c'mere, Artie... please." Still shaking his head, England let go of the still bleeding wound, his place soon taken by Ireland again as he put his arms around his brother. "If you think this is goodbye-!" he said, voice high-pitched with held-back tears. "I-if you think we'll let you die here like this, Dylan, I swear-!" But Wales didn't say anything. He just leaned against his little brother's cheek with his own, for that was all he could do now. He w_as_ saying goodbye, just a precaution. What if he didn't, and he died now? The last thing he'd have done then was yell and curse at his brothers in rage, and he couldn't do that to them. He couldn't do it to himself. And if he survived, then this would just have been his way of making his actions earlier up to his brothers, it was that simple.

Then, suddenly, he heard two voices in the distance, sounding distorted and far away. "Please, get out of the way! We need to hurry here!" Then footsteps, and England letting go of him again, though still holding his hand. "Please, sir, let go of the wound. We'll stop the bleeding." Ireland choked out a short mutter of agreement, then pulled his hands back from Wales' wound. The pressure was soon put back, however, though the hands were replaced by something else he couldn't place. Then an ear was pressed against his chest, checking for any irregularities in his breathing and his heartbeat, no doubt. "Alright, sir," one of the voices, a woman's, said to him. "Can you hear me?" Wales wanted to nod, but couldn't. Instead, he just made a sound, he didn't care which one it was. Just a sound. "Good," the woman said then, sounding relieved. "Very good. He's holding on nicely. There's a good chance we'll be able to save him. Now, if you could -_carefully!_\- place him onto the stretcher..."

Ireland and England nodded, looking at Wales for a moment. He was getting pale, his breathing weaker. How could this woman say they could save him, when he was already in this state? Then, carefully, they slid their hands under his back, shoulders and legs to slowly heave him onto the stretcher so he could be brought to the nearby hospital. Ireland thanked the heavens that it was only a block away from here. But the moment he and England lifted their brother, they heard a sickingly loud crack, feeling part of Wales' body shift in a way that just didn't seem natural, and the hurt nation let out an agonised scream, his fingers unconsciously scraping over the ground in an attemt to clench his hands into fists. When the scream ended a second later, his entire body went limp, his upper body trembling violently. "Dylan?!" both Ireland and England exclaimed. "B-brother? Are you-?" But there came no answer. Wales remained motionless and silent. The only thing that told them he was still alive were his trembling and his raspy, shallow intakes of breath. Then he was quickly carried away by the two medics, and the two nations that were left behind stared at eachother in defeat.

Ireland turned his gaze to his hands, which were covered in blood. He couldn't stand the sight, and felt sick just looking at it. Then England spoke softly, absent-mindedly talking to himself. "We need to call Allistair..." he mumbled. "Tell him what happened... He needs to come here and... and say goodbye also..." Ireland couldn't hear it, he couldn't, it hurt too much. But he did, anyway. "Arthur..." he whispered, his voice shaking with terror. "My God, Arthur, I... I might've killed our brother..." Emotion then overwhelmed him, and his knees felt like weak twigs, causing him to fall to the ground, shaking all over. "I killed Dylan..." England shook his head and knelt down in front of his brother, grabbing him by the shoulders. "H-he won't die," he protested, contradicting himself. "He can't... he'll live, you'll see. He'll make it a-and... be fine... again..." He then hugged Ireland tightly, who returned the embrace as though his own life depended on it. "I'm so sorry, Arthur, I'm so sorry!" he said over and over again, sobbing now that he fully realised the situation they were in. England, too, could not surpress his emotions anymore, and tears were trailing down his face as he told his brother that it wasn't his fault, that it would be alright, that their brother would be fine again. _It was not his fault._

And the humans, still gathered on the square, could only watch in complete silence. After a few moments, one of them closed his eyes and started whispering a prayer for the three nations, his example slowly being followed throughout the entire square. In barely a minute, every human present stood motionless with their eyes closed, either praying in silence or holding a silent vigil, and for the first time in history, it wasn't the nation that shared his people's grief. It was the people that grieved along with their nations.

* * *

The sun was setting outside when Scotland raced into the St. James' Hospital in Dublin, where his little brother would be according to England and Ireland, who had called him earlier and told him a quick version of what had happened early in the afternoon. First he ran up to the counter in the entrance hall, nearly crashing into it. "W-Wales," he gasped immediately. "I-I'm here fer Wales. Where's the lad?" He was given directions without a second thought. After all, the only ones to storm in here asking for a nation would be a nation, it wasn't exactly a common thing. "However, you cannot see him quite yet. Your brothers are waiting there, too, though. Good luck, sir." Scotland's breath caught in his throat at this. When people started wishing _visitors_ in a hospital good luck for simply visiting a family member, it could hardly mean anything good. Still, his feet brought him to the right corridor within minutes, though his mind was somewhere far away. The moment he spotted his two brothers, he ran toward them, practically skidding to a halt in front of them. "Where's Dylan?" he asked instantly, not even bothering to greet them. They'd understand.

"Surgery," England sighed, and Ireland nodded to confirm this. "He's been there for the past three hours now..." the Irishman explained, not looking at either of his younger brothers. "There was quite some damage done. A nurse just came by an' told us they were nearly done. It's just a matter o'minutes now before we'll hear more." Scotland nodded slowly, trying to let the information sink in. Three hours of surgery... it was absurd. How had this happened? Ireland got to his feet now, standing in front of Scotland and holding him by the shoulders. "Allistair," he began softly, calm. "Sit down for a moment. It won't do Dylan any good if we pace around and stress all the time." Again, Scotland nodded, though he didn't move an inch afterwards. His mind was entirely on hold, it couldn't process any information now. All it could do was wonder what had caused this and hope everything would be alright and _worry_ that it wouldn't. Eventually he must've mumbled his question out loud, because Ireland flinched, letting go of his younger brother and taking a step back. "Well, I..." he tried to explain, but his voice wouldn't work properly. "I'm afraid I... I shot him. But it was an accident, I-"

He was cut off when something collided with the side of his face at a staggering speed, throwing him to the ground. Trembling with shock at the sudden impact, he pushed himself up to a sitting position, pressing both his hands to the throbbing side of his head. Looking up, he saw Scotland towering over him, the hand he'd just used to punch his older brother with still raised and clenched into a tight fist. "Ye _what?!_" he roared at the Irishman, completely enraged. Ireland looked away, still trembling all over. He just couldn't control it right now. "I'm so sorry," he apologised for the millionth time that day. "It was an accident, I swear!" Scotland just stood motionless, taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself. Eventually he sighed. "I'm sorry, Cearul."

"N-no, don't be... I deserved this one." But Scotland shook his head and held out his hand for his brother to take. "No ye didn't. As ye said, 'twas an accident. I know ye, brother, ye'd never hurt any of us like that." Ireland, taking Scotland's hand and getting to his feet again, exchanged a quick, guilty glance with England. Of, if only the Scot knew... Then came the sound of footsteps echoing through the hall, which was empty aside from the three nations, and they all turned to look at the surgent that was walking their way expectantly. Their hearts skipped a beat when the man introduced himself as the surgent who'd been working on Wales a few minutes before. "The bullet went all the way through," he explained. "And did a lot of damage. Most of the work we had was stitching him up. And then there was the spine, of course..."

"Spine?" Scotland echoed, horrified already. He didn't like the sound of this. Ireland and England exchanged another glance, and the youngest nation asked, "Wait, that loud crack we heard when lifting him... surely that wasn't...?" But the surgent nodded, his expression grim. "It was indeed his spine breaking. From what we could see, it was already damaged when the bullet hit, cracking the bone further. When he was then lifted off the ground, the part of his spine that was weakest at that moment broke completely. I'm afraid that, if he even survives, he'll be paralysed from the waist down." At that moment, time stopped completely and the entire world seemed to fade to the brothers. This one stupid mistake would leave Wales paralysed for perhaps the rest of his life, put him in a wheelchair for eternity, ruin his entire life...? _One simple mistake?_ "If he even survives..." Ireland then repeated what the surgent had said, absent-mindedly. "Do ye mean... he might not make it?" Again, the human nodded and explained, "I'm afraid so. He lost a lot of blood, not to mention the shock he went in the moment his spine gave out... The next twelve hours will tell us whether he'll make it or not. Once we're done preparing the blood transfusion, you'll be allowed to see him, though only for a few minutes. We need to be able to keep an eye on him every minute. So if there is anything at all you want to say to him... now's the time." He then softly wished them good luck, and walked away, leaving the three nations to stand there, utterly crushed.

"H-he's telling us to _say goodbye_ to Dylan..." England rasped, his voice barely audible as he began to shake beyond control. "Goddammit, he's telling us to say _goodbye._" Immediately, Ireland and Scotland reached forward and grabbed his hands, one each, then eachother's. "That doesn't mean he won't live," Ireland tried to reassure England, but his own faith was faltering. "I-it doesn't mean it's certain that he'll die... he might still live!"

"_Survive_, you mean," Scotland then put in, shaking his head. "Stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of his life... That lad ain't goin' to _live_ ever again, I'm afraid." The Scot then closed his eyes, doing his best to hide his emotions, but tears were already trailing down his face as he clenched his jaws tight. England then allowed a single sob to escape his lips, and he immediately put his arms around Scotland, who returned the embrace tightly with his now free hand. Ireland, too, got closer, hugging both his younger brothers as tightly as he possibly could, his own face soaked with tears as he bit his lip. They would get through this, the three of them. They would get through almost anything. But it hurt more than they could have ever imagined.

Never again would they fight eachother like they had. They had sure learned their lesson now.

* * *

**... I doubt apologising will work at this point. **

**You know, I've just been thinking, maybe part of the reason I write so much misfortune for this 'family' in such a short period of time, is because my own family has the same thing. We dive from one dark pit into the other, but we all survive and we all stay strong. In a way, strange as it may sound, a life full of misfortune is pretty much the best life one can have. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, they say, and it's so very true. The harder the life you lead, the stronger you get. Over the past year, at least four of my family members have looked death in the face, one died. Some others, icluding me, have had thoughts along the lines such as "if only we could end all this... one way or the other" -the other being by dying. (not suicidal, though. Never). These experiences somehow just make their way into my writing. **

**So here's my word of wisdom (which for some reason I just need to write and share with the world right now): Enjoy every aspect of life, the good and the bad. Appreciate everything you have, even if it hurts. Because so long as you survive, know that you can only learn and grow stronger from it. Life is yours, and though you do not control what comes on your path, you do control how you handle it all. Take it all head-on, chin up. March through every dark tunnel you have to go through with pride and strength, and one day, you'll see the brightest light at the end of it.**

**I think... this is a lesson I subconsiously try to merge into my writing, so that others may learn from it if needed. I hope it is useful in a way.**

**And now I've been talking for too long. Just know that, after all this, the story will have a brighter ending. Not a happy ending like fairytales and such, for that is not life. But brighter.**

**Thanks a lot for reading. A _lot._**


	39. Chapter 39

**Well, I'm on a roll with these last few chapters XD Posting one after the other... maybe, just maybe, this fic will end before the new year. I doubt it, though.**

**Crossfire and Shelly, thanks a lot for the reviews! And I can tell you now, by the end of this chapter, you'll see why I said it would be brighter again near the end.**

**But as for the beginning, I'm sorry for the last bit of angst. I hope you'll like it, anyway! I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

The sun was beginning to set over the woods when two boys sat beneath the tree tops. The older one of the two was laughing a bit as his little brother, a toddler of barely two years old, made another attempt at speaking. "Habbah!" he said, his mossy green eyes full of pride as he thought he'd nearly said his older brother's name. The older boy just shook his head. "No, Cymru, my name's _Alba_. Al-ba. Try it." Cymru blinked for a moment, taking in the information, then tried again. "Habbah!" Alba just laughed again and patted his baby brother on the head softly. "Try again, it's not that hard. Al-ba, okay? Al...ba." Cymru was getting a little frustrated now. So it still wasn't good? But he was trying so hard! For a moment, he pouted a little, then tried again, just like big brother told him to. "Abba!" Alba shook his head, but looked down at his little brother with pride. "Almost, Cymru, very well done! I know it's hard, but try to make the 'L', alright? Try it: _llllll_... like that." When Cymru tried, the only sound that came over his lips was '_nnnnggggg_'. With a sigh, Alba patted him on the head again. "Perhaps that's enough practice for today. But if you try this hard every day, you'll be able to speak in no-time." Then he got up and got ready to clean the animal pelts they slept on for the night. But then, Cymru tried once again in an attempt to prove to his big brother that he could do this. He could, he really could! He was smart, very smart, of course he could talk! "Alba!" Instantly, Alba turned around again, smiling wider than Cymru had ever seen him do. "You did it!" he cheered, picking up his little brother off the ground and hugging him. "You actually did it, you spoke your first word! My _name_, even! Oh, if only mom and Eire could-" He trailed off, and Cymru could practically feel the joy drain from big brother's body. But he was still held in his arms, and he was content enough with that. "I'm proud of you, Cymru," Alba then told him. "Very, very proud. Now, whenever you need help, just call my name, alright? I'll always be there to help you when you do." Cymru nodded and hugged Alba back. He loved the warmth, he loved the feeling of security and comfort. He loved his big brother.

But now, there was only pain and cold. He couldn't breathe, and when he opened his eyes, he saw the panicked faces of Ireland and England. "Dylan!" they called him. "Brother, please-! D-don't leave us!" _But it hurts so much..._ "You'll be fine, lil' brother, I promise you!" _Then why sound so scared...? _He himself was terrified as well. He wasn't stupid. On the contrary. He knew very well that he was dying, which is why he was trying to say goodbye to his two dear brothers already. But one was still missing, a very, very important one to him. Then, suddenly, the pain that was torturing him got a million times worse, and he screamed in agony. He was terrified, so very terrified. He didn't want to die, not like this, not here, not now. He fought open his lips. There was no voice coming out of his throat anymore by now, only a desperate rasp.

"A-Al...ba..."

* * *

Ireland looked up immediately when he heard a faint rasp in the room, and then stared at England and Scotland. They'd heard it, too. Scotland was already leaning over Wales, who appeared to be having a particularly bad nightmare. "It's okay, laddie," he tried to reassure him. "Hush now, wee brother, it's okay... we're here, we're all here. Yer fine." But Wales kept on mumbling things, most of it without any voice behind it, but his lips were moving frantically. Ireland sat down by the other side of the hospital bed now, and carefully grabbed his little brother's hand. England got a little closer now, too, placing his hand on Wales' leg. "We're all here, brother. Everything's fine." Ireland said something too so Wales would know all three of them were there with him. He then glanced at Scotland, who was still looking at his little brother with a horrified shimmer in his pale eyes. Only the day before, he'd asked his older brother if he, too, had been so pale, had looked so vulnerable and frail when he just returned from the Great War. If England had looked like that after the Battle of the Somme. He couldn't remember ever having _seen_ any of his brothers this close to resembling a corpse. Ireland had only nodded and told him that, yes, England had looked exactly like this. Scotland himself had been less pale and less frail-looking, but still a mere ghost of what he truly was. Wales, too, would be himself again once he recovered. Because now, after three days, at least they knew for sure that their brother would survive.

Unconsciously, they all held their breath when slowly, Wales blinked open his eyes for the first time in days. They were but mere green slits, darting from one of the three nations to the other, a hint of confusion in them. Even so, his brothers smiled at him the moment they saw he was awake, and Scotland quietly greeted him, "Hey there, laddie... welcome back." There was practically no response at all from Wales, who then looked at Ireland. The oldest nation gave his brother's hand a soft squeeze and smiled. Then Wales turned his gaze to England again, who smiled wider and said softly, "Dylan, I'm so glad you're awake..." Wales could only hum in response, and closed his eyes again, though clearly not to fall asleep yet again. He just seemed perfectly happy to have all three of his brothers there with him at that moment. But soon he grimaced, sighing and opening his eyes again. "D-did I have surgery or some'in...?" he asked quietly, voice hoarse. "I feel awful..." Ireland nodded and softly explained to him in the calmest voice he could manage, "Ye did, lad... three days ago. Yer still under some heavy medicationm though, so of course... ye'd still feel a lil' off." Wales just hummed, echoing in a whisper "Three days..." before silently looking at is oldest brother. After a moment, he blinked and began, "Cearul, you..." Ireland almost flinched already, knowing very well what would come. Accusations, probably all the anger Wales could manage in his exhausted and drugged state, words that would haunt Ireland forever. _You shot me. You did this._ But none of that was said. Instead, Wales narrowed his eyes a bit and weakly lifted one, shaky arm towards his brother's face. "Your cheek... 's all bruised. What happened..?" Ireland then turned the bruised side of his face away from his younger brother, quickly telling him it was nothing. "But it's all blue-ish and purple an'... is that black? You should get it looked at." He then softly placed his fingertips against the huge bruise, which covered all of Ireland's left cheek and just around the eye and jaw as well. Scotland had a mean punch when he was this angry. But almost the moment Wales touched it, the Irishman grabbed his hand with both of his own, and gently laid it back on the bed beside his brother. "Really, Dylan, it's nothing. Ye should worry more 'bout yerself than me right now, I feel perfectly fine." With a glance at his two other younger brothers, he added, "We all do. We're just worried 'bout ye now."

Wales nodded, looking at England now, who still had his hand on his older brother's leg for contact's sake. Suddenly, the Welshman's eyes widened and his mossy green irises filled with fear. "Ar...thur..." he choked out, his voice barely audible. "How long... how long have you been keeping your hand there...?" England paled a bit as he realised now that his brother couldn't feel his touch, and was slowly beginning to realise this. Quickly, he removed his hand from the sheets and answered, "S-since you woke up..." It came out as though he wanted to say more, but nothing more than that came over his lips as he nervously watched Wales get more panicked with the second. "I-I..." the injured nation breathed, looking down at his legs with a horrified expression. "I can't... move... Why can't I move...?" Quickly, Scotland held him by the shoulders, forcing his little brother to look at him instead. "Hey, laddie, it's okay," he tried to soothe his ever growing panic and fear. "It's okay, really. Just keep breathing, alright? Nice and calm now..." But Wales wouldn't listen. He stared at his older brother wide-eyed with fear as his breathing became fast. "B-but Al, I-! I c-can't feel or- or move my legs, I-" Suddenly the pieces of the puzzle clicked together in his mind, it seemed, and he rasped in complete horror, "My God, I... I'm... I'm paralysed..." By now, his quick breathing almost resembled hyperventilation, and Scotland tried again to calm him while Ireland and England just held his hand or placed their hand on his shoulder reassuringly. It was all they could do right now.

"Dylan!" Scotland said quickly, panicking a bit himself by now. "Please, wee brother, try to calm down a bit! You're not nearly well enough to be stressing out like this yet! A-and please stop squirming around, your back isn't healed enough, you might break it all over again!" But Wales, understandably, couldn't be calmed at this point. He was trembling beyond control, his eyes beginning to overflow with tears as he tried his best to breathe properly again. Then, rather suddenly, came the voice of the surgent that had been tending to Wales for the past three days. "What is going on here? I told you to inform me immediately if he woke up!" He rushed to a cabinet beside the nation's bed, grabbed a syringe and filled it with a clear liquid. "Now, if you'd let me through, please," he said to Scotland, frustration clear in his voice as he already reached forward to inject the liquid into Wales. But Scotland grabbed his wrist roughly and pulled it back. "What the hell are ye tryin' to do?" he hissed at him, holding back most of his anger. The surgent glared at him, answering just as fiercely, "He needs to calm down or he'll hurt himself, and then there might be even more damage! This will just help him calm himself again before such a thing can happen."

"Yer not a psychologist!" Scotland replied, clearly about to explode with rage. Most likely, Ireland and England figured, he was just as scared for Wales as they were, and he was simply standing on the edge of an emotional breakdown right now, just like them. "_You_ don't know what he needs, _I do!_ I've raised this lad an' dealt with each an' every panic attack he's ever had. Now if ye'd let me deal with this an' help him _without _poisening him with even more medication-!" He stopped abruptly without finishing his sentence, turning back to Wales, placing one hand on his cheek and the other on his shoulder. "Hush, laddie, it's okay. I understand it's terrifying, truly, I do. I know I didn't show it, but I felt like this, too, when I woke up blind. It's the most horrible feeling ever, I know. But we'll help ye, ye know that, right? We'll help ye through every second of it. We'd never let ye go through some'in like this alone. Yer our dear brother, an' we'll be there for ye every second of this." It worked, but by far not enough. Scotland then turned to the surgent, asking quickly, "If I support the lad, can he sit up fer a moment?" Reluctantly, the human nodded. And so the Scot sat down on the bed beside his little brother, very carefully pulled him up into a sitting position, then gently hugged him with one arm, using the other to support his back where it had been broken. Still shaking violently, Wales immediately leaned against his older brother's chest, closing his eyes, still trying to control his breathing. Scotland then turned to the human again and gave a short nod, which somehow, the human understood. He, too, nodded and left the room, quietly stating he'd be back in a few minutes.

"_Fy mrawd bach,_" the Scot then whispered, closing his eyes as well and placing his forehead to Wales'. "_Fy mrawd bach annwyl... Bydd yn cael ei iawn. Dwi yma ar eich cyfer chi, rwyf bob amser y bydd._" Wales then sighed and leaned more against his older brother, answering in a barely audible whisper, "_Rwy'n yn ofnus, brawd. Ofnus hynod._" Scotland nodded and whispered something back, and Ireland and England axchanged a glance. Their brother knew more Welsh than they did, for sure. They spoke eachother's languages, but only to a certain extent with the exception for English. But seeing as Scotland had raised his little brother all on his own, most likely, he'd picked up the language the tiny nation had begun to speak very quickly. It certainly came in handy now. After a moment, Scotland began to hum softly, a calm melody that Wales seemed to recognise immediately. With a tiny smile appearing on his lips, he said softly, "_Eich hwiangerdd..._" At that moment, Ireland recognised it, too. "That's... that's a lullaby Allistair used to sing for Dylan when he was still a toddler. I've heard him do so once or twice..." he explained to England, who just nodded and smiled. It was probably the sweetest thing he'd ever seen his older brother do, and it seemed to work perfectly for Wales. Eyes closed, he was smiling as he remembered the earliest years of his childhood, when he and his older brother used to do this nearly every night. "_Diolch yn fawr,_" he whispered eventually, completely calm again. He knew again now, that what Scotland had told him earlier was true. His brothers would be there for him every step of the way. He _would _be fine. It would be hard, but then again, he now realised, it would only mean he'd need help doing certain things. Just like the last time Scotland had sung him this lullaby, back when he'd still been a little child. No matter what, he'd never lose his faith that one day, one day however far away, things would turn out to be just fine once more. Like they once had been.

* * *

Just over two weeks later, Ireland was in his house in Belfast. Immediately after the incident, he and England had started negotiating a truce. They both had to give up something, but peace was getting quite near. For England, he'd have to give up Ireland. Yes, for the first time ever, England recognised Ireland as an independent nation. As far as he was concerned, his brother was no part of the United Kingdom anymore and could rule himself. Of course, there would still be some official business to attend to before Ireland was truly free. It was amazing to the Irishman. If not for the situation they were in, with the war still going on and Wales still in hospital, where he'd have to stay for another three weeks at least, he'd have been overjoyed to the point where he probably would've held a party to celebrate with some of his human friends... in Dublin or Ballinhassig, perhaps. But he'd have to give up something, too.

Ulster. To be completely honest, he didn't mind much. The Ulster Loyalists had already proven they wanted to stay with the United Kingdom, and perhaps it was for the best. They disliked or even hated Ireland as a person these days, that was something he'd been assured of again when he came into Belfast two days ago for negotiations. Right now, he was here clearing the house out. Deciding which furniture he'd sell, which antiques he'd take with him to Dublin and Ballinhassig, packing his clothes. He'd leave Belfast in mere days, most likely to never return to this house. It felt strange, but good. He didn't want to have anything to do with Belfast anymore. Hopefully, he thought as he lay staring at the ceiling in his bed, this would be one of the last nights he'd spend here. Content with this thought, he closed his eyes and drifted into sleep...

Abruptly, Ireland opened his eyes and shot up, almost falling out of his bed with the sudden motion. There was something in this house, he heard, and whatever it was, it was making a lot of noise. When his mind was a little less dazed from being woken up so suddenly, to his complete shock, he recognised the noise as a baby's crying. He got up in an instant and ran into the livingroom, where the sonud seemed to come from. By the time he was there, most of his initial shock had faded, and he realised how utterly lonely and scared the crying sounded, and the sound tore at his heart. He actually couldn't stand a baby or a toddler crying for stupid reasons, like when they didn't get what they wanted and used it to convince their parents, but when it was for good reasons like the ones he heard in this voice, he could stand it even less for entirely different reasons. Scanning the room as quick as he could, he soon spotted the source of the sound lying not too far off, on the ground. Ireland wasted not a second to get to its side and pick the tiny baby up, gently holding it in his arms. How had it gotten here? Who- or whatever had dropped it off -somehow in the middle of his house and in the middle of the night- had at least wrapped it in a blanket, but it was too small to really keep the child warm and it didn't seem to be wearing anything else than that. It was absurd. Completely ridiculous. How the hell had a baby, a newborn judging by its size, made its way into his house like this? But he couldn't dwell on that too long.

"Hey, shush, it's okay," he tried to soothe the crying baby, which still sounded absolutely terrified and lonely. "Hush now, lil' one, it's okay. Yer not alone anymore, I'm here now." Still holding the child in his arms, he quickly went to turn on the lights in the room to inspect the situation a bit easier. 'The situation' being what he internally called this baby now, for he had absolutely no idea what was going on. In fact, he thought he was dreaming. Perhaps he shouldn't have been drinking last night after all... He then sat down on the couch and inspected the mysterious baby. Chubby like all babies were, so that was good. Though perhaps it was a but on the thin side for a baby, he couldn't really tell. It had been ages since his little brothers had been born, and he'd never really cared for young children like this after them. The child was also capable of producing plenty of noise, so he quickly concluded it was healthy. A little bit of dark ginger hair was already on its head, tiny freckles on its face. Second conclusion his exhausted, sleep-deprived made: it was cute. Then there was only one conclusion he'd have to come to, he decided, and gave a quick check. Last conclusion: it was male.

Now that he'd gotten as much of the kid's identity as he possibly could in this small period of time, being 'a cute, healthy little boy', he again began to wonder how it had gotten here. But as the boy kept on crying, Ireland sighed in annoyance. Why did this have to happen to him, why now, why like this, _why now?_ It was the godforsaken middle of the night, he really didn't have the energy to deal with this now. Even so, he whispered in the most soothing voice he could manage at this ridiculous hour, "It's okay, lil' one, yer safe here. Whatever happened to ye, 't won't happen again as long as yer in my house, understood? I may not be an expert with children, I sure can protect 'em when necessary. Yer perfectly safe here." After a little while of doing this, the baby's crying subsided a little. Most of all the lonely, scared sound of it faded, and made way for something else. Ireland couldn't really place it at first, but then figured the child was probably hungry. Babies always seemed to be hungry. If not, they were tired. Eat and sleep was truly all they did, for all Ireland really knew. Even Scotland and Wales had in their first year. England was probably the only exception for this rule, somehow managing to fend for himself at such an early age. With a sigh, the nation placed the baby on the couch and went to the kitchen, trying to block out that annoying crying. He truly had no idea what else to do, so he heated some milk in a cup until it was lukewarm, then took it back with him. He knew this wasn't the right kind of milk, but he had nothing else.

Sitting down on the ground beside the couch, he dipped his index finger in the milk and held it in front of the baby's tiny lips. It was only by the second time he did this that the baby understood, but when he did, he practically lodged his lips around Ireland's fingertip, sucking every drop of milk from it then releasing him again so the nation could get another few drops to drink for him. After about two minutes did it dawn on Ireland. _He was 'fingerfeeding' some random weird baby that had somehow popped up in his home in the middle of the night._ He should definitely stop drinking for a little while. The baby sure was enjoying it, though. He was drinking happily, not minding the tiny portions per fingertip at all, just gratefully awaiting every 'refill' of Ireland's fingertip so he could drink again. At least he was silent now. Ireland kept this up for roughly half an hour, and by then, a quarter of the milk was gone. That was good, he decided. Should be plenty. Now, if only he could get the baby to sleep as well, he could get back to his own bed and continue sleeping. He was tired. So he picked the baby up again and held it gently, mumbling softly to him, speaking of random things. Whatever he needed to do to be able to get some sleep.

But he wasn't. Though the child eventually fell asleep, it was already four in the morning by then. The first few hours, Ireland had been annoyed and exhausted, but he'd probably stayed up long enough to go right through the exhaustion and be wide awake again. From that point on, he'd just been watching the little boy in his arms with a warm smile. Seeing him fidgeting from time to time until he fell asleep in the end, then listening to his soft breathing and even the quiet little snores. And by the time the sun came up in the morning, he found he didn't even _want _to let go of this child anymore. But he should definitely tell his little brothers about this. So, not bothering to check what time it was, he went to the phone, holding the sleeping baby with one arm as he dialed his own Dublin phonenumber. Scotland and England were staying there for the sake of being able to visit Wales everyday like they had promised. It was England who picked up the phone and answered sleepily, "Who the hell's calling at this ridiculous hour? Bloody wanker..."

Ireland smiled. "Is it really that early?" he asked, trying to sound apologetic. "Sorry, lad. I was up all night, wouldn't know..." On the other side of the line, England began to mutter something about 'fucking twat should learn to read a clock' and 'it's still not even bloody six in the morning', but Ireland didn't pay it any mind and instead got to the point immediately. "Look, lad, thought I should tell ye that, somehow, a, er... a baby suddenly appeared in me home last night. Middle o'the night, t'be more precise."

"A...baby?" England echoed, clearly still half asleep. "What the hell, Cearul, haven't you just been drinking again?" Ireland sighed and admitted that, yes, he had. But he was currently holding that baby and looking at him. He was most certainly not a figment of his alcohol-filled mind anymore, now. "Well, how did it get there?" his younger brother demanded, sounding perplexed. Ireland shrugged. "I don't know," he confessed. "There was no break-in, so it's not like some desperate mother tried to find a home for her child or some'in. Like they'd ever go this far, anyway. But I... I do have an idea who he might be..." A silence fell after that, and Ireland looked down at the baby, which was still sleeping peacefully in his arm. A warmth filled his entire body just looking at him, a feeling in his heart he'd never known before, and he smiled again without even knowing. "Well?" England demanded after a minute. "Damn, Cearul, it's not a book, you know! Don't leave me with a cliffhanger like that!"

Ireland then nodded and apologised for his silence, not taking his eyes off the sleeping baby boy. "I think, Arthur... I think this is Ulster. This is Northern Ireland."

* * *

**Baby North is just so cute, the way I imagine him!**

**And, sorry for the terrible Welsh. I don't speak a word of it. But according to Google Translate, here are the translations:**

**Fy mrawd back (annwyl) - My (dear) little brother**

**Bydd yn cael ei iawn. Dwi yma ar eich cyfer chi, rwyf bob amser y bydd - It will be alright. I'm here for you, I always will be.**

**Rwy'n yn ofnus, brawd. Ofnus hynod - I'm just scared, brother. Terrified.**

**Eich hwiangerdd - your lullaby**

**Diolch yn fawr - thank you**

**And as for the lullaby, I imagine the melody to be Ba Mo Leanabh, a Scottish Gaelic lullaby.**

**Well, I hope this made up for the sadness in the last few chapters, and that the next one will, too. From here on, there's just two or three chapters left to go until Rising is finished and Trouble will start. Thanks a lot for reading!**


	40. Chapter 40

**Last chapter for this year (and second last overall!)**

**I'm sorry if my posting so many chapters in such a short time is annoying in any way. But these last few chapters practically flew out of my fingertips, and I can't wait half a week before posting them.**

**Femme aux Mille Visages, thanks for the favourite and follow, and Crossfire and Karano for the lovely reviews! To you, Karano, I feel I have to say _something_, but I can't come up with the right words for it... I'm sorry. All I can do is wish you luck. And don't worry, nothing what you wrote sounded childish ia any way. If anything, it shows your strength. (And don't apologise for not having read the chapters sooner, darn it! In your own time whenever you feel like it! I'm just glad to have readers in the first place)**

**On a brighter note, Crossfire, you said you were expecting health recovery and baby antics. You're getting both.**

**And be prepared... I made up a little plot twist that had _me_ confused for two or three days, and I'm the author of this thing! XD Yeah... but it adds to cuteness, in my imagination at least. And a bit of the sadness needed in the sequel, of course.**

**So now, without further ado, 2014's last chapter for Rising. I hope you enjoy.**

* * *

"So, how was it?" Scotland asked his younger brother as he walked through the corridor of the hospital, pushing Wales' wheelchair for him for now. He'd just spent well over two hours practicing to move around in it, and was now clearly tired. This was only confirmed when he yawned, saying, "It's really _exhausting._ Sure makes me look at people in a wheelchair in a completely different light. Damn, they have some strong arms, I'm telling you. They need to, at least, if they're living like this..." When he was finished telling his brother this, they had just about reached his room again, and he sighed. "You know, right now, I'm actually _glad_ to be sitting. Wouldn't have been able to even take a single step being this tired, most likely." Scotland only gave him a pat on the shoulder as he tried to turn the wheelchair to get back into Wales' room. It was a bit trickier than he'd thought at first, but he managed, immediately wondering how the hell Wales was ever supposed to get around in this thing. Then again, countless of people managed, so he would, too. But Scotland couldn't really stop worrying until he knew for sure his little brother would be fine.

When the wheelchair was rolled beside his bed, Wales yawned again, and Scotland smiled a little. "Ye have to stay awake for a little while, brother," he told him, leaning forward to him and placing one arm behind the younger nation's back. Wales then sighed as he wrapped his arms around Scotland's neck. "Why? I don't know if you've noticed, _I'm tired._ And I don't recall there being any more tests today. I also won't be getting any more medication until later this evening... it will be fine if I sleep for a bit." But Scotland shook his head, sliding his other arm unde Wales' limp legs, lifting him up, still a little carefully. It had only been three weeks since the incident, and he didn't want to risk anything. "Arthur and Cearul are coming in a few minutes," he told his brother as he gently placed him back on his bed, helping him getting his legs in a position that would be comfortable for his back, or the part he could still feel, that is. "We, ehm... we have a surprise for ye. An' trust me, this is one ye want t'see. So please try to stay awake until they're here, aye?" Wales looked at him with an annoyed gaze that obviously said, 'seriously now?', muttering a second later, "You know I'm not one for surprises, Allistair." Scotland nodded, pulling up a chair to sit down beside his little brother. "I know, I know... but this isn't just any surprise. Yer goin' to like this one, I'm sure." Wales huffed, still not convinced nor pleased, but didn't complain anymore. Instead he just went along with Scotland's attempt at a conversation.

About fifteen minutes later, England arrived, greeting his older brothers with a bright smile. Wales was only glad to see he was happy, at least. "But I thought Cearul would come, too?" he asked the younger nation, who nodded as he, too, pulled up a chair beside the bed and sat down. "He's here, waiting just outside the door. We just thought it might be better to give you a slight warning first." Wales' expression darkened only the slightest at this. He did _not _enjoy 'surprises' for which he had to be warned first, not at all. Usually they weren't anything good. "Just... expect the unexpected, okay?" England went on with a nervous smile. "Don't be too shocked." He then turned to the door and called for Ireland to enter. When his oldest brother came into the room, Wales' eyes nearly popped out of his skull when he saw, of all things he could've brought into the room, a tiny baby in his arms. The oldest of the siblings laughed a bit at Wales' expression, though softly as to not wake the young child he was holding, then held him out for his little brother to take. Wales hesitated a moment before taking the child from Ireland's arms, eyes still wide with utter confusement. "C-Cearul, what-?"

"This is the newest addition to our family," Ireland explained, still smiling warmly as he sat down on the side of the bed, just beside Wales' legs. "He's, shall we say, the result of our peace negotiations." Wales instantly stared at him with a blank expression, silent for a moment until he muttered, "Gods, brother, you _do _know how weird that sounds when talking about a _baby_, right?" Ireland grimaced for a moment, (and as did England, who looked away quickly) then mumbled soflty, "N-no, hadn't really thought 'bout it like that, yet. Would'a prefered not to have at all." Wales smirked at him for a moment, happy to still be able to freak his brother out with mere words, then looked back at the child. His apparent new sibling. "So this is Ulster?" he asked a bit absent-mindedly as he carefully stroked the boy's cheek. His skin was so warm and soft. From the corner of his eyes, Wales could see England shake his head a bit. "Not really, no. I mean, he is the region of Ulster, minus a few counties, but he's the nation Northern Ireland." Wales nodded silently as he inspected Northern Ireland a bit more. He was really small, so probably he was still more or less a newborn. Well, of course he was. Ireland had just been partitioned, and not even completely officially yet, for all Wales knew. Other than that, he had ginger hair like Ireland, but a bit darker. Not quite as 'red' as Scotland's, though. Light freckles just like his oldest brother, but a bit more prominent that Ireland's, which at his current age were almost invisible. They had been more obvious back when he'd been a child, though. Wales shot the Irishman a quick glance before looking back down at Northern Ireland, smirking a little. They sure looked alike...

"So how did this kid... join the family?" he asked his brothers as he gently inspected a strand of the baby's hair. It was a little bit curly as of yet, but if his hair would be anything like that of the rest of the family, it would mostly straighten out when he got older. "Three days ago," Ireland started explaining. "I was woken in the middle of the night by this lil' lad. He just suddenly appeared out of nowhere in my place in Belfast. It took me until morning to figure out who he was." Wales was surprised at this. So the baby was only three days old? He looked to be a little bigger than that already... But then again, he wasn't sure. "Appeared just like that?" he asked, eyes still locked on the sleeping boy as the same smirk as before creeped back onto his face. Was he just jumping to conclusions, or were the others in here just really that oblivious? Ireland answered something, but Wales didn't pay attention as Northern Ireland blinked open his eyes, which were pale green, looked up at the Welshman with a sleepy gaze, blinked again and started crying. Startled, the nation looked to his brothers for help, and Ireland immediately leaned over to him and took North from his younger brother's arms again. Wales was only glad that he didn't have to deal with this now. Other than his two older brothers, he'd never even been slightly involved in raising a kid, so he had no idea what to do. Ireland seemed to handle it pretty well, though.

"Hey, shhh, it's okay," he said soflty to the little boy as he held him close. "That's Dylan. He's our brother an' he's very, very kind. No need to be frightened now."

"But wouldn't ye be," Scotland said with a grin. "If ye suddenly woke up in the arms of a stranger?" Ireland gave a quick nod, of course he would be if he'd been a baby like North, but didn't stop whispering gentle reassurances to the child. Soon enough, North stopped crying and seemed completely calm and content again. Seeing this only confirmed Wales' earlier suspicions, and with that smirk, he asked his oldest brother, "So, Cearul, what do we call the kid?"

"What d'ye mean, lad?"

Wales smirked wider as Ireland looked at him, slightly confused but mostly nervous, and the Welshman gestured to himself, England and Scotland. "Do the three of us call him our little brother? Or should we just call him our nephew instead?" Ireland stared at his brother wide-eyed as all colour seemed to drain from his face at that moment, and England and Scotland exchanged a surprised look. They hadn't considered that possibility yet. Wales only went on, "You see, it would be a bit weird to suddenly have a new little brother so many centuries after the previous youngest member of our family, wouldn't it? Not to mention we were all born the 'natural' way, and this one the 'nation' way. Our mother has been dead for ages, I hardly think she came back to life just to give birth to one last son, drop him off at your place, then disappear again. I don't really think it's even possible for him to be our little brother."

"And so you're suggesting he's..." Ireland asked, almost horrified. "He's... my _son_, instead? Dylan, I don't think-"

Wales shrugged. "I'm just saying," he said to Ireland. "I think it's more logical than him being our mysterious new brother. And just think, will you? He's _your _former territory, he was born with _you_-" At this point, Ireland shook his head and interrupted his little brother, "No, Dylan, he was born in _Belfast_. His capital? It was just a coincidence that I was there. Lucky for him, even." But Wales shook his head and motioned for Ireland to be quiet until he was finished talking. "_You_ weren't born here, were you?" he asked, not waiting for a reply. "You were born in Great Britain. Our mother was there when she got pregnant with you, and you were born _there._ Yet, you represent this island, and this city is your capital. You were just born where your parent was at that time, and so was North. Cearul, I honestly think that, if you'd been female, you'd have had this baby with you for about nine months longer already. That's what I think."

All nations were quiet after that, staring at Ireland who was staring at Wales, then turned his gaze to Northern Ireland. Even after what his brother had said, looking down at the baby now didn't spark any feeling other than what it had done before. But then again..._ wasn't it stronger than what he'd experienced with Scotland and Wales and England?_ Wasn't the feeling of kinship just that much more intense than he could remember feeling when holding any of his younger brothers for the first time after they were born? Everytime he looked at this boy, it seemed his chest was unable to even contain his heart anymore, which felt like it could just flutter away any moment. He hadn't really thought anything of it before, as he felt pride surge through him simply by looking at any of his younger brothers. But now, after Wales' reasoning which, terrifying as it was, _made sense_...

Ireland quickly shook his head and stated without hesitation, "He will be raised as our little brother, nothing less, nothing more. _Definitely_ nothing more." A short silence fell again after that, and England urged him on, "But...?" Obviously Ireland was about to say more, he just needed a little nudge in that direction. Ireland took a deep, shaky breath and sighed. "But..." he mumbled, hesitating but not doubting. "But I think... you might be right... Dylan."

"Then why d'ye want him t'be raised as yer brother, Old Man?" Scotland immediately asked, unable to _not_ smile. Of all things he never imagined he'd be, 'uncle' had definitely been at the top of the list. But it was an amazing thought. Ireland shrugged and didn't answer for a moment. He was visibly getting more uncomfortable with the situation with the minute. Scotland eventually leaned over to him, placing his hand on his older brother's shoulder. At this, Ireland let out a sigh, closing his eyes and explaining, "Next year, when I officially seperate from the United Kingdom, the people from Northern Ireland get to choose where they want to go -with the Irish Free State or the United Kingdom. And we all know who they will choose. I just... think this is best." He bit his lip, and to his shock, Wales noticed his eyes were a bit glassy as he looked down at Northern Ireland again. This hadn't been his intention. Scotland noticed, too, and gave Ireland's shoulder a soft, reassuring squeeze. "There's nothing wrong with ye bein' the lad's father, y'know. Ye have all the right to claim him as yours." England agreed with this, but Ireland shook his head once again, protesting, "But he'll be raised by the three o'ye, bein' a part o'the UK. An' then if I'm his father but won't be takin' care of him... can ye imagine what that would be like for the lad? As if I don't care enough to take him in. And of course, it's a nation thing, an' he'll understand one day. But 'one day' is years an' years away." With another quiet sigh, he concluded, "I just don't want him to grow up thinkin' I don't care. At least when he thinks o'me as a brother, that feelin' won't be as strong. He'll be raised as our little brother, even -and there is absolutely no proof, anyway- if he is not."

"And what if the Northern Irish people choose to leave the United Kingdom and join the Irish Free State?" England questioned, accepting his brother's choice but doubting it. "Then what?" Ireland's answer was a clear and definitive one. Without a second of hesitation and a single shiver of doubt, he stated, "They won't."

* * *

Almost a month later, Wales could finally return home from the hospital, though he'd first spend some more time in Dublin before taking a ferry back to Great Britain. England, much to his own frustration, had been called back to London two weeks prior. His government refused to let him stay away for too long, no matter the reason. But he'd called almost daily for an update, both on his older brother and his nephew-brother. At least, that's what he called Northern Ireland for now, as he was still a bit confused about the matter, just like they all were. Though the three younger brothers were all pretty convinced Ireland was the kid's father at this point, concluding this from the way their older brother had been acting around the young child for the past weeks, Ireland himself still denied it from time to time, but on other occassions he seemed to just accept it as a fact.

"Are ye sure ye don't need any help?" Scotland asked Wales, trying not to fuss too much but failing miserably, as the younger nation glared at his brother from the backseat of the car. They had just arrived at Ireland's home in Dublin. "The only thing you can do," Wales stated, feiging anger, though the annoyance seemed genuine enough. "Is make sure it doesn't roll away when I get into it. That much would be appreciated." Scotland nodded, holding on tight and making sure his brother's wheelchair wouldn't move an inch as Wales grabbed the sides of it, heaving himself from the car seat into the chair, then leaning down and pulling on his legs a bit to straighten them into a normal position again. When he was done, he looked up over his shoulder at Scotland. "Thanks. You can let go now. After a month, I can move around in this thing just fine on my own." And he could. He was at the front door even faster than Ireland, who then handed him Northern Ireland, who was once again asleep, in order to be able to unlock and open the door. He walked in with a tiny grin, not even looking back, and annoyed, Wales called after him, "Now how am I supposed to follow you if my arms are occupied?!"

"With a lil' help from yer big brother, of course," Scotland said, smirking as he walked up behind him and pushed his wheelchair for him until they were in the livingroom. Wales just huffed and let him. Words wouldn't stop Scotland, he knew, and there wasn't really anything else he could use. As they came into the livingroom, Wales immediately noticed the furniture had been moved to make it easier for him to get around, and he smiled at this. He sure had the most considerate brothers one could wish for. All three of them had said they'd refurnish the Welshman's own house for him, too, when the time came he'd return home. There was also already a bottle of whiskey on the coffeetable, accompanied by three glasses. And a little bottle of milk for Northern Ireland, of course. "Oh, really now, so eager to celebrate?" Wales asked, laughing, as he rolled over to sit between the couch and armchair after Ireland had taken over North again. Scotland flopped down onto the couch beside Wales, pouring three glasses of of whiskey for him and his brothers. Ireland sat down beside him, too, though a bit more carefully as to not wake up his 'son-brother-whatever'. He then placed the baby between him and Scotland, and the little boy continued sleeping with his head against Ireland's hip, quite happy like that. When the three all had their drinks, Ireland raised his. "To Dylan," he said with a smile. "And that he may never be away from home for this long again!" Wales laughed and nodded, agreeing completely, adding, "And Cearul, for obvious reasons. Defying the laws of what we thought was nation-nature, but were actually just those of common occurences!" At this, Scotland began laughing, finishing between the laughter, "And North, for simply bein' the cutest wee lad since Dylan!"

Scoffing at this, Wales just finished his whiskey in nearly one gulp. Scotland, however, noticed Northern Ireland waking up beside him, and much like Ireland had done in the night the boy had been born, dipped his finger in the whiskey and held it out to him. "There ye go, lad," he said softly. "Yer official initiation into the family." However, before Northern Ireland could even react, Ireland noticed and placed the baby on his lap, glaring bloody murder at his younger brother. "An' just what d'ye think yer doing, idiot?!" he demanded fiercely, and Wales burst into laughter at his tone. Scotland just shrugged and stated that, until a few centuries ago, babies his age would be drinking beer when their mother wasn't around to feed them the proper milk. Children used to grow up with alcohol, after all. Wales, still laughing loudly, reached forward and patted him on the shoulder. "D-dear lord, Al!" he choked out between his laughter. "D-don't piss off daddy now, he bites!" Going along with the joke, Ireland bared his teeth at Scotland and growled like a fierce dog as he protectively put his arms around North. The baby had no idea what was going on, but he saw the smiles of everyone around him, heard Wales still laughing and Scotland chuckling by now, and let out a squeal of joy.

Smiling wide, Scotland picked him up from Ireland's lap and held him for a moment. "Ah, one drop wouldn't have been too bad for ye, would it?" he joked, tapping the baby on his nose softly, who then began to laugh and squeal again, overjoyed to be playing as Scotland lifted him in the air and said, "See? Now that's what I call a happy baby. I remember Dylan always laughing like crazy when bein' tickled. How 'bout ye, laddie?" Northern Ireland let out another squeal, then... then something else entirely. The Scot grimaced, immediately handing the boy back to Ireland, who was shaking with silent laughter as he tried not to laugh. He just couldn't hold it back right now. Scotland then got up from the couch, muttering, "I'll go get 'nother shirt now... be right back."

"Well, ye were askin' for it," Ireland laughed. "That's what babies his age do, y'know? They throw up on ye." Scotland huffed as he left the room, still muttering, "Yeah, but aren't they s'posed to barf on their _parents_ instead...? Disgustin'." Ireland nodded, calling after him, "Oh, but he did. Seven times already." Scotland was then out of sight, and Ireland leaned back on the couch, grinning. Wales then made a slightly disgusted sound, asking with disbelief, "You actually keep track of that? Okay, Cearul, that's _it. _Every argument you give in denial of him being yours from now on, is now officially invalid." He then rolled his chair forward to the table a bit, though he miscalculated the force needed to do so and bumped against it with his legs, knocking over two of the glasses on it and nearly tipping the bottle of whiskey as well. Confused, he looked down, and saw his legs stuck between his wheelchair and the table. "Oh," he said, sounding genuinely surprised. "Well, aren't I lucky that I didn't feel that? Seems tight enough down there..." That said, he rolled back again, more gently this time, and looked at Ireland. "Could you, eh... pour me another glass? I'm not going to try that again. Next time I'll break something -the glasses and bottle, I mean." Ireland nodded and did as he was requested, then grabbed the bottle he'd prepared for North as the young child was eyeing Wales' whiskey curiously, then looked up at Ireland with big, questioning eyes. "_This_ is the stuff ye can have," Ireland told the kid, holding it out for him to drink from if he wanted to. "That other stuff's not healthy for ye yet. An' I do want my boy to grow up healthy, alright?"

Wales smiled, watching this. It was the first time his brother called the child 'my boy' or anything else that was an equivalent to 'son', or at least the first time he heard him do so, and it warmed Wales' heart and soul to see and hear. There was indeed no way to prove Northern Ireland was truly Ireland's kid, or their little brother instead, but they sure had made their decision over the past few weeks. And having a child to look after, his own or not, was doing Ireland more good than he himself probably even realised. Wales did. It served as a nice distraction for the Irishman, something else to focus on than all the troubles that were still going on, even if they were coming to an end. For Wales, too, this was a good thing. At least he wasn't the only one to constantly be fussed over, which gave him the space to deal with his loss of function in his entire lower body. He hated it, he hated it so much. He wanted to yell, scream, cry, laugh, all at once. He wanted to die. He wanted to live. Most of all, he wanted to _walk_. He needed to give all those emotions their own place in his heart, he knew, and he was given the time and space he needed to do so everytime his brothers were more busy with Northern Ireland than him, and he was grateful for that. One of these days he'd break down, and what he would do then, he didn't know. But he knew it would come, and he was prepared for it. And after that, he could only grow stronger again, and he would.

Soon enough, Scotland came back again and flopped down onto the couch, glancing at Ireland. "So, brother," he asked after a moment of silence. "Shouldn't we give the lad a human name, as well?" Ireland nodded, smiling as North had finally begun drinking his milk, happily closing his eyes as he did. "I've been thinking 'bout that, too," he admitted, then looked at his brothers again. "How 'bout Coineach?" Wales actually considered it, as it did sound catchy, but Scotland only raised an eyebrow. "An' does that name have any meaning?"

"It means something along the lines of 'handsome'," Ireland then explained, shrugging. "An' let's face it, this lil' fella just _is._" Scotland wasn't convinced yet, and stated, "Y'know, Old Man, ye can't really call a baby _handsome._ That's just werid." Ireland nodded, agreeing to this, though answering, "An' what about it? I could hardly call him 'cute' an' let him grow up with that name, right?" Wales nodded, already agreeing, and eventually, Scotland gave in too. "Alright, then. Coineach it is." The Scot leaned over to Northern Ireland and tickled his cheek a bit. "Ye like that name, Coineach?" The baby only squealed once more and closed his eyes.

* * *

**So yeah. One day I just thought about how many people have their Ireland OC _female_ (I do not approve. Somehow, Ireland and the UK are just all guys to me. They just are. But until there are canon characters for them, it's up to everyone to make up their own, right?) and that it'd make sense, historically, if Northern Ireland was somehow the (non-incest (in such a case I wouldn't have made them related)) child of Ireland and England. _They_ made the Treaty which created North.**

**And then I started imagining further... "But their mother is long gone! How can he be their brother...?!"... and thought some more... "It would be cute, wouldn't it, if..."**

**And eventually I came to the conclusion: I'm going to make it a bit unclear whether Ireland will be 'big brother' or 'papa' to the little North. Up to the readers to decide. As for the UK, they all have their own opinions on the matter. Yup. Doing it like that.**

**I actually have a similar theory for Germany and Prussia. Like Britannia, Germania (Prussia's dad) has been dead for _centuries_. No I know nations can be born out of thin air or without a male/female involved, but... from someone who's already dead? Nope. Just nope. And then, if you consider if was _Prussia_ who took the initiative in creating the German Empire out of all the other German states, in my mind, that makes 'Vati Gilbert'. Of course, when Germany grew up a little quickly and became the same physical age as his dad, they just went with 'brothers' instead as it made more sense at that point.**

**I have all sorts of weird family-theories for Hetalia. Many of 'em.**

**So now, you can decide for yourself (as there is indeed no way to prove either of them): is North Ireland's little brother, or his son? Whatever you want. I'm going both ways in the sequel (still wondering how, but I am)**

**And lastly, of course, have an amazing 2015! Don't screw around with fireworks or too much alcohol, 's not a good idea. Most of all, have fun!**


	41. End

**And here is the very last chapter for Rising.**

**Instead of just those that reviewed recently and such, this time, I want to thank everyone who's read this until the end. Thank you all so, so much for that. Having readers, reviewers and 'supporters' is very important to a writer, I'm sure many of you will know. Seeing a new favourite, follower or review brightened my entire day each time, seeing how many readers I've had made me happy every day. Thank you all so very much for that.**

**I will post the summary for the sequel, Trouble, at the end of this chapter in the AN. And the first chapter of it will be up today, as well!**

**And now, here you have the last chapter of this story. I hope I stayed true enough to history, yet created a more 'human' story as well, as that was my goal.**

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By the beginning of autumn, Ireland went to Ballinhassig with Northern Ireland. His brothers sometimes wondered whether it was a good idea for him to be spending so much time with the child, as most likely, they would be seperated by next year. Creating a strong bond with him would only hurt in the end. And though Ireland knew this and agreed with it, he'd also laughed as they told him this and answered, "Yeah, nice theory. But ye can't put it into practice. I'm not _creating_ a bond with him, nor _strengthening _it. It was there from day one." So here he was, two months after Scotland and Wales had left, taking the boy to his favourite little town. Parking in front of his cottage, he got out of the car, and was about to open the other door to get North out as well, when he heard a way too familiar voice. "Cearul! It's been too long, lad." Ireland turned around to see Sean coming back from his almost daily stroll. It hurt sometimes to see his friend grow older while he himself hadn't aged a day in centuries. Sean was almost sixty now. But that was life for a nation, and it had happened plenty of times before, he was used to it. He smiled and greeted the human, who halted beside the nation. "How're you doing, lad?" Sean asked him with a pat on the shoulder. Ireland smiled, and for the first time in a long time, he could honestly say, "Very well, actually. I was just about to unload some o'the stuff I packed, an'..." He turned back to the car and gently picked up North, who had once again fallen asleep. Cars worked wonders on babies, apparently. "An' get this lil' lad into bed, actually."

Sean's eyes widened the moment he saw North, then he smiled at his friend. "Well, would you look at that!" he said with another firm pat on the nation's shoulder. "An' I seriously remember you tellin' me 'twas impossible for nations to have a family like this!" Ireland nodded, adjusting his hold on North to keep him a bit more steady in his arms, then admitted, "I thought it was. I seriously did. But then there was the treaty with Arthur, an' Northern Ireland was created... an' here he is. What he is exactly isn't sure, though, but I guess it's up to us four to decide for now."

Sean nodded for a moment, keeping his eyes on North for a few seconds before looking back at Ireland. "Y'know, lad, you should come over to my place for a little while! Margeret will be overjoyed to see you again after so long, and I also have both my kids over for the week. They'll be leaving again soon, and they did mention how they'd like to see you again for once. How 'bout it?" For a moment, Ireland hesitated, but that hesitation didn't last long. He smiled and gladly accepted the invitation, locking his car for the time being and following the old human to his house a little further down this lane. "You know," Sean eventually began. "We were already planning to throw you some little party when you'd come here again, to celebrate our freedom with you, if you don't mind. We could do so now. I mean, we have some good drinks in storage at the moment and Margeret just finished baking some soda bread earlier today. Y'know, that sort of stuff." Ireland listened in silence as the human went on, happy to be with his friend again after all those months. "An' I'm sure you've a lot to tell us, an' I'm not just talking 'bout the kid! You haven't been here in a long time. We have some news, as well, but you'll see that when we get there." Ireland wasn't really listening anymore, if he had to be honest, so when Sean suddenly said something he did notice, it almost startled him. "S-sorry, what...? I didn't catch that."

Sean smiled, as he had noticed his friend's thoughts had been wandering. He'd known Ireland for as long as he lived, and knew the man well enough to notice such things. "I said, it's about time. Northern Ireland, I mean. You've known my family for generations, an' it's time we met the new generation of yours, too, don't you think?" Ireland only laughed as they reached the human's house and went inside. "Honey!" Sean immediately called to his wife. "I bumped into Cearul on the way back an' brought him with me. An' he's brought someone along you'd love to meet, I'm sure!" The human took the still-sleeping North from the nation's arms for a moment to allow him to take off his coat, then handed him back. Margeret then appeared in the door to the livingroom, greeting the nation with a smile similar to her husband's when seeing his friend. "Cearul! Oh, it's so good to see you again! How have you bee-" She fell silent the moment she saw North, her eyes shining with warmth and joy, just like Ireland had expected. She loved everything young and small, be it kittens, puppies, tiny birds or children. Almost instantly, she asked if she could hold him, so Ireland handed the sleeping child to her, actually glad that someone else was looking after him for a moment. He'd only ever taken care of children together with his mother before, so he was still adjusting to having someone around that demanded constant attention, even when asleep. He then went to the livingroom, where indeed, the humans' two children sat, their 33-year-old son Patrick and their 25-year-old daughter Laura. These two people, too, had Ireland known from practically day one. Happy to see them again after many years, he walked in and greeted them both.

* * *

Wales was at his stables together with Scotland, very glad to be spending time with Cythraul again for some time. At first the horse had been a bit confused, both because of the state his owner returned in and the fact his mother was nowhere to be found, but Wales had spend some hours explaining it to him over the past days, and he'd understood, more or less. Wales had always known the horse was a smart one, and he'd never doubted an animal's ability to understand humans or nations, even if they didn't know what was being said to them. Not in the human sense of 'understanding', that is. He was now sitting in front of him, petting his black neck. "You're a big fellow from this perspective, you know," he told the horse with a grin, and Cythraul just turned his head and touched his nose to Wales' shoulder, an obvious sign of affection. He gently hugged the large animal's head then before turning his wheelchair a bit to look at his older brother. "You know, Allistair," he began teasingly, knowing very well that Scotland would not enjoy this. "Since I can't get him his exercise anymore... it's your turn to ride him through the hills for a few good hours." The Scot only stared at him, not sure what to say, or whether to say anything at all. He knew that anything he'd get over his lips now wouldn't be positive, at least. He didn't like horses, never had. Why the hell his national symbol was a unicorn, he had no idea, that had been his people's choice. Same with the bloody prickly thistle, which he also hated with a passion after falling in a large thistle thicket as a kid and being sore for days after. He didn't mind being near horses if it was to make his little brother happy, but he would not ride one. No way.

Wales eventually sighed and smiled at him, stating, "Oh, fine then. Just give me a moment to get him out of the stable, at least. He deserves to be able to run around, hills or not, rider or not." Scotland leaned back where he sat, watching his little brother struggle a bit at first to get into a position where he could open the door and let the horse through, wondering if he should help. But Wales was finished doing this little thing before Scotland could get up. Cythraul ran out of the stable immediately and into the field, and Wales stared after him with a smile. With a sigh, Scotland got up and went to stand beside his brother, one hand on his shoulder. "So, anythin' ye need help with, lad?" Wales only shook his head with a soft "no, thanks" and rolled off at a speed so high, Scotland almost had to run to keep up with him. "Gods, laddie," he said to him as he tried his best to stay walking beside him. "Ye really got the hang of this quickly, didn't ye?" Wales laughed and nodded, going even faster to annoy the Scot, who gave up at this point. He wasn't going to run after him if it wasn't necessary. But when he was near his house again, though he'd slowed down again, one wheel got stuck in what was apparently a -luckily empty- rabbit's hole, and the entire wheelchair tipped over. Wales didn't mind falling out of it that much, he hardly felt any of it, but since he couldn't get up by himself, he just lay there, chin resting in his both his palms and leaning on his elbows on the ground, waiting for Scotland to reach him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw his wheelchair had landed on his legs, and he wondered for a moment if it had crushed anything. Probably not, it wasn't that heavy.

"Dylan!" Scotland exclaimed, crashing down onto his knees and helping his brother up after pulling the metal chair off his lower body. "Dammit, wee brother, watch out next time! Ye hurt?" Wales only smirked, practically hanging from Scotland's shoulders as he answered, "The thing landed on my _legs_, does that answer you question? Of course I'm not hurt, idiot."

"_You're _the idiot out of us two, not watching out like that."

"I'm perfectly fine, Al!" Wales laughed getting back in his wheelchair and continuing on to his house, looking over his shoulder at his brother. "Stop fussing so much, I'm not a child!" Scotland ran up beside him and huffed, clearly getting angry or frustrated. Probably both. "No, yer not," he muttered. "Yer a cripple -no offense."

"None taken. 'S true, after all. But if there's one thing I've learned," the Welshman smirked now and gave his brother a playful punch in the shoulder, nothing too hard. At least, he thought it wasn't too hard. "It's that one should never underestimate a cripple. Give me one more week in this thing, and I can beat you in arm wrestling, no problem. I'm also practicing on doing a wheely. Oh, and once I get Cythraul somewhere without bumps or holes in the ground, I can just go in circles and let him chase me." With a slight grimace, he added, "The only thing I'm not looking forward to, is a slippery winter. But I'm sure I can manage. Oh! Can you imagine it? Ice skating in this thing! That would be great, I'm going to try one day."

As Wales kept on going on like this, stating everything he would try, wanted to try and wondered about other possibilities, Scotland smiled. At first he thought this was his little brother's way of masking pain, but then he realised all his excitement was genuine. Somehow he'd already found the bright side of his new condition and was looking forward to trying all sorts of things. Tricks, mostly, but other things also. Eventually, he asked, "Hey, do you think I can get down some stairs in the city in this thing?" which made the Scot's skin crawl, and he practically yelled, "Yer _not_ goin' down a flight o'stairs, ye wee moron!" Wales shrugged as though it hadn't even been such a bad idea. "Okay, if you say so."

Once inside, Scotland immediately spotted something had been faxed to them, and curious, he went to check what it was, scowling when he saw a bunch of paperwork and a note saying '_Just thought I'd share the work. Seperating nations is almost as much work as unifying them, you know? I needed your signatures for some things, anyway. Good luck with it, you two! -Arthur_  
The Scot sighed, amused, then called over his shoulder to Wales, "Yer 'wheelies' will have t'wait, wee brother. We've got work to do!" Wales only complained a bit at first, then rolled up to sit beside Scotland at a table, both going through the paperwork while talking about nonsense.

* * *

England grinned and chuckled softly as he flopped down onto his couch on his back, staring up at the ceiling. No way he was going to do everything alone. He'd been working day in and day out to fix all paperwork needed to truly create the Irish Free State -a deal in which Ireland would be an independent state, but remained under the British crown. It seemed like the perfect solution, especially now, with Northern Ireland. It was just that much easier this way to move the kid from England to Wales to Scotland to Ireland and back again. He had to be raised by all four of them, he just had to. Not just Ireland and not just Great Britain. After his initial shock, the Englishman had actually grown to be pretty excited about the whole Northern Ireland matter. He'd raised plenty of colonies over the centuries and knew what it was like to see another nation growing up, so that in fact was nothing new. But this would be the first nation younger than him that he was actually related to. Well, with the exception of North- and South Italy, but truly, when did he ever meet with _them?_ He was looking forward to seeing this boy grow up, and was really hoping he could teach him about not only being a nation, but also being a person.

Because if there was one thing he was aware of now, it was that he'd been immature and selfish when all this started. He'd really grown up over the past few years. And he was glad he had. He had realised he'd been hurting his brothers for such a long time, and knowing that really hurt. Of course he had known before that what he'd been doing was wrong, but to him, it had all been payback. Perhaps his way to prove he wasn't a weak little kid anymore, never even had been. But in doing so, he'd crossed the line countless times. He regretted fighting Wales and Ireland to make them join the United Kingdom, though he couldn't bring himself to regret creating the UK. The way he'd gone over it, however, had been wrong, selfish and cruel. Most of all he regretted everything bad that ever happened to them because of him. He'd fought Wales, he nearly let Ireland starve once... truly the only to have joined the UK willingly had been Scotland, and only because his king at the time also became the English king. He regretted it all, and sincerely hoped he could make it up to them one day. With a sigh, England then closed his eyes and smiled, only capable of thinking about how much he cared about his brothers at that point. They were family. They were brothers.

* * *

Ireland sat in the livingroom of Sean's house, talking to the man's two children, or mostly Patrick. Laura was too much like her mother when it came to young children, and she had practically melted when she saw Northern Ireland. Right now she was holding the baby and softly whispering things to him which were too soft for Ireland to hear. "So how're the wife an' kids, Patrick?" Ireland asked the man, who shrugged and answered, "Fine as ever. John's started school earlier this year, and he's doing really well so far, even if there isn't much to be learned at his age. As for a two-year-old, well, they can hardly not be doing well unless something's wrong with their health, which luckily isn't the case. She's still in the blissfully oblivious state of her life." He then glanced at his sister beside him, looking at North for a short moment before asking, "Do nations even have a state like that? You know, when they don't know anything about what's going on around them and enjoy every single thing?"

Ireland nodded, explaining, "Sure we did. Though I suppose it's a bit different nowadays than back when I was a kid. Back then, there was hardly anything one could call a government, there was no economy to worry 'bout and no international business other than the occassional war. An' on my little secluded island, there weren't a lot of wars to worry 'bout, either. Not until I was older, at least." He then looked at North, who was beginning to snore a little, and added, "I'm pretty sure _he's_ oblivious of anything, anyway. Sleepin' all day, cryin' for attention all night..." Laura laughed at that and Patrick just nodded, understanding the situation Ireland was in all too well, as he'd been going through the same thing until very recently. Sean and Margeret knew exactly what he was talking about, too, and the woman tried to reassure him, "Oh, but that lasts only a year at most, lad, don't you worry about that." Patrick snorted and added as a warning, "And after the first year come the night terrors and he'll be screaming you awake every single night still. The moment a kid enters your life, you don't sleep. Period."

"Yeah, well, he won't be here anymore after his first year," Ireland sighed, earning stares from all four humans, and he explained, "He'll stay with me for now, but by '22, he'll be raised by his other brothers instead. He's a part of the United Kingdom in the end, an' he will be raised by them when it's made official. Speakin' of which..." He got up and carefully took North from Laura's arms again, looking at all four humans. He sometimes considered these people to be his own family, they were that close. But even so, he couldn't stay. Not right now. "I have a lot of work to do if I actually want us all to become independent. I'll drop by again soon, okay? An' thank ye, all o'ye." After short and warm goodbyes from the humans, he left again and went to his own house. It was about time he got back to work. But first of all, it was time to put North in his bed.

* * *

And eventually, the day had come. It was 1922, and Ireland was in London with his brothers. They had just signed the final paperwork to truly get everything over with, and Ireland was now truly free. And Northern Ireland officially a part of the United Kingdom. Ireland was looking at England now, holding North for the last time in a while at least. With a warm smile, he sighed, saying, "What a shame, hm? We've finally learned to live together without wanting to kill eachother every minute, and now I'm leaving already." But England shook his head and smiled as well as he looked his brother in the eyes. "No, it's not a shame at all," he said, and for a moment, Ireland was genuinely surprised. But then, he realised, he shouldn't have been at all. "If anything, Cearul, I've finally got my oldest brother instead of an enemy, and you finally have your youngest brother." He then laughed for a moment, looking at Northern Ireland, who was staring at him with wide pale eyes, probably wondering what was so funny. "Well, not counting Coineach as a brother for now, that is."

Ireland nodded, looking down at North for a moment, then gently hugging the child. "I dun'care what my people say," he whispered to him. "I dun'care what my leader may say. I dun'care in what way yer related to me." He then tilted his head a bit and kissed the boy on his cheek. "I love ye anyway, lad. I love ye more than anything." He then looked up at his two little brothers, glancing down again for a moment to look at Wales as well, feeling again that stab of guilt in his heart. But after nearly a year of hearing it wasn't his fault, he'd stopped blaming himself for what had happened. And Wales was doing fine, or so the nation kept telling his brothers. And they believed him. Then, slowly, he held out Northern Ireland, who already held out his short arms to England with a squeal, knowing his big brother would hold him now. And big brother England always played with him, and he liked that a lot. "Take care o'the lad now, my dearest brothers."

England took North from Ireland's arms carefully, holding him in one arm and softly tickling him a bit with his other hand to keep him busy as he talked to Ireland for now. "Of course," he promised. "Of course we will. He's our little brother, after all. But he's also our nephew. We'll take care of him to the best of our abilities, Cearul, I promise." Scotland nodded and smirked at his oldest brother. As always putting some of his own character in an official meeting like this. He always did, unless the reason for the meeting was a negative one. "Don't ye worry, Old Man, we'll tell ye 'bout everything that happens. Ye'll know when he speaks his first word, _down to the minute_, exactly which word and how't sounded. Same with walkin' an' all that stuff. Yer not goin' to miss a minute if I can help it!" Ireland laughed for a moment and thanked his brother. Then Wales cleared his throat to get his brothers' attention for a moment, staring up at Ireland with a blank stare. "You're not going to walk out of here without _one important thing_, Cearul. And don't complain about not liking it, you're getting it." Then, he spread his arms, waiting for Ireland to get the message. The older nation nodded with a smile, bent down to Wales and gave him a firm hug. "Take care o'yerself, Dylan," he mumbled, and Wales laughed. "Me? _I_ have to be told to take care of myself? For God's sake, Cearul, what about _you_, darn it?"

"Hey!" Scotland then said. "No profanity now, laddie! There's a kid in here."

Ireland then went over to him, wordlessly giving him a hug too, which the Scot returned after a moment. Only when they let go of eachother again did Ireland say with a smirk, "Says the man who's cursing is almost as frequent as mine! Ah well. Ye take care, too, Allistair."

Next was England. Though the hug wasn't as firm as with Scotland and Wales, but that was only to not crush Northern Ireland. As they held eachother, England using only one arm, of course, Ireland said the one thing he couldn't ever have expected to say only months ago. "I love ye, Artie. I really do."

"I love you, too, Cearul."

Then they parted ways, and as Ireland left London, he realised this was the last time he'd been here as a part of the United Kingdom. He was free. He was independent. After great and long struggle, he was now leaving behind the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. And all this wouldn't have been possible if not for his people fighting for him all this time. The men that orchestrated it all, from the Treaty to the War of Independence all the way back to the men he'd worked with personally. Those he had come to respect with all his heart.

All of this was thanks to the people behind the Easter Rising.

*End*

* * *

**Thank you all so much for reading this story, and I sincerely hope you enjoyed it!**

**Trouble:  
_Born into a civil war, thrown into a World War. Northern Ireland's youth seems to be full of misfortune and battle. But the real Troubles are only just beginning..._  
**

**Now just let me say without being creepy... everyone who ever took the time to review this story: I love you for that.**


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